One Breath
by Julia Irian
Summary: A shared breath to survive, a confession, a drunk pub night and an experiment... and the relationship at Baker Street is shifted decidedly into new territory. Now what are they going to do about it? Alternate ending to S1, with a bit of the occasional case thrown in, but mostly Fluff and Figuring Out Their Feelings(tm) with a lovely little dosage of sexual tension. Enjoy!
1. The Pool

**One Breath: The Pool**

 _AN: Woo, my first Sherlock fanfiction – hope you like it, feedback is welcome! xxx_

The words were still ringing in Sherlock's ears. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool... People might talk."

He met John's eyes as he sat, still slightly wobbly in the knees, leaning against the changing room wall. His lips quirked up in a smile. "People do little else."

John grinned, and let out a relieved chuckle, his eyes crinkling. Sherlock felt a warm jolt go through his stomach. He couldn't stop looking at John, his dark blue eyes and his features cast in an otherworldly light in the dark swimming pool. The reflecting light from the water was chasing patterns across his face. What was going on behind those strange eyes? Certainly more than most people would guess from John Watson's unassuming manner. He often felt as if he said one thing and then his face said something completely different.

A memory played through his mind. Sherlock, sitting on the back of the ambulance, seeing John and realizing _he_ had shot the cabbie. Killed a man to protect him. And then afterwards, John seemed serene, even joking about it. Sergeant Donovan would, no doubt, classify John as a _Freak_ for this, just like Sherlock. Others, such as Mycroft in one of his more pedestrian moments, might have pointed out that John going out on a limb like that was especially remarkable because Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson had only just met. Sherlock, however, knew that it was not a question of time. It was a question of character. Either you pulled the trigger, or you didn't. Feeling remorseful about it afterwards didn't change this fact, and John knew it. He'd made a decision. There was no regret.

Why did this memory flash through his mind now? Ah, yes.

" _Sherlock, run!"_

He heard it replay in his mind over and over. John's eyes boring into his, willing him to get out and save himself, leaving John behind. To die for him.

Once again Sherlock realized that John Watson was a puzzle to him. And he knew, with another strange sensation somewhere in his chest, that he was never one to resist a puzzle. A small smile began spreading on his face, but it was cut short by several red dots appearing on John's body.

When Moriarty walked back into the swimming pool, a cold fear gripped Sherlock's heart. Him confronting the criminal was one thing, but not with John caught in the crossfire. His mind quickly played through all possible scenarios how this could end. Getting themselves shot without doing anything about it was definitely not an option. He pulled his gun, aiming at the jacket with the bomb. His eyes flickered to John, still crouching on the floor. He quickly assessed the tension in the man and concluded that he was no longer shaking and his knees looked steady. He appeared rather like a coiled spring, ready to jump. John gave the slightest nod, his eyes flickering to the swimming pool.

Yes. There was a chance they could make it. John trusted him with this, and he trusted John. There was certainty. Well, then, there was really nothing else to it, was there?

He pulled the trigger.


	2. One Breath

**One Breath**

John's eyes were riveted on Sherlock, on his eyes, on his arm, ready to detect the slightest change in tension. He kicked off the ground almost before his friend pulled the trigger.

As the bullet left the weapon, John's body connected heavily with Sherlock, gripping his torso with his arms and pulling him along, headfirst toward the pool.

Time slowed down to a crawl. John heard another couple of shots go off as the snipers around them reacted. There was a piercing sting and then pain spread outwards from his shoulder. He grunted and clenched his teeth. _Not again._ But he had no time to process that thought.

They broke the water's surface just as the explosion hit. Blinding light and noise erupted from around them. Underwater, John instinctively clung to Sherlock as both of them were swept backwards by a powerful shock wave. He faintly registered that his friend had wrapped his arms around him, cradling his head to his chest. A second later, they slammed into the wall of the pool, Sherlock's arms taking the brunt of the impact that would have surely cracked John's skull.

Pain spread throughout his body. The impact had pushed what air he had from his lungs and he felt dizzy, not knowing where up and down was. Sherlock's arms were ripped from him in the tumble and he had nothing left to orientate himself. John's nose, ears and mouth were full of water and he was painfully aware that couldn't breathe. Everything was noise. Then he opened his eyes and saw the lanky shape of his friend with his jacket billowing around him. Sherlock reached out a hand and he took it almost unconsciously, blinking in the turmoil of the water. He felt the long fingers close around his in an iron grip, and the world steadied a little. Together, they kicked their legs, hard, propelling themselves upwards. They were at the deep end of the pool and John could feel his clothes and shoes dragging him down with a vengeance. The pain in his shoulder made it almost impossible to swim. Finally, his head broke the surface and he spluttered, pulling in a gasping breath.

One breath was all he would get. His vision was blurred, but in the second he surfaced he saw that the ceiling was caving in and broken and burning pieces of wall and cubicles were littering the pool's surface all around them. There was a raging fire all around them, the air sizzling as pieces toppled into the pool. The air was painfully hot and a thick smoke was developing.

Sherlock was close, holding on to him with one arm as they broke the surface. The detective managed to pull in a rasping breath before his eyes went wide, glancing up. John was about to turn around to see what his friend had seen, but before he could take a second breath, he felt Sherlock's arm tighten around his torso and another arm push him under again.

John had just enough presence of mind to hold his breath properly this time as Sherlock dragged them into the deeper water. Past Sherlock's shoulder, through blurry eyes, he saw a huge ceiling support beam crash into the water where their heads had just been moments earlier. The force of the impact obscured his vision in white, foamy mist. John finally kicked his feet again, one arm slung around his friend, to help push them both away from the slowly sinking debris.

They backed themselves into the deepest corner of the pool, where two tiled walls provided a small amount of protection from the mayhem around them. John heard the muffled sound of a second explosion, wondering what kind of flammable equipment they had in this place. Sherlock had probably cataloged it all in his head already.

The thought calmed him a little and he turned to face Sherlock. His friend was glancing up to the surface in thought and then back at John. He shook his head. _No, it definitely wasn't safe to go up yet._ The water was churning and a feeling of being dragged told John that the explosion had ripped open the pool, slowly draining their precious shield from them. He gripped onto Sherlock's arm to steady them, keeping them anchored in the somewhat safe corner.

Sherlock slung his arm around him to help and then frowned, puzzled. His eyes strayed to John's shoulder and widened. John glanced down. Red blood was seeping from a wound in his shoulder. His cardigan and shirt were clinging to the wound and made it even more difficult and painful to move, to stay upright in the water. His medical mind tried to get a grasp of the situation, but had no more suggestions to offer beyond ' _get out of the water first_ '.

His chest constricted painfully with the lack of breathing, and a few bubbles of air escaped his mouth before he could stop it. Sherlock had his eyes fixed on John's face, then on the bubbles. John knew he was thinking hard.

Not more than a few seconds could have passed since they dove into the water, but the adrenaline pumping through him made every moment pass incredibly slowly. Sherlock's stare became more intense as his eyes flashed. He had an idea. Raising his hand between them, he tapped two fingers to his lips, then pointed at John's.

John's eyes widened. The medical part of his brain immediately recognized this as a viable solution. The rest of it saw fit to shorten out. Yet there was no time to think about it. They needed to breathe. So they could either risk the fiery debris and smoke on the surface, they could drown, or they could try to share their air as long as they managed, buying some time. He nodded.

Sherlock did not hesitate. He pulled John closer, one arm still slung around his waist, his other hand coming up to guide his head. Part of John's mind switched into full medical mode and he raised his hand to steady Sherlock's head as well, knowing they must not lose any air in this maneuver. The other part of his mind seemed content with cataloging exactly how the hands on his body felt strong and sure, instead of awkward.

Slowly, with precision, Sherlock angled his head and pressed his lips to John's. And suddenly, there was nothing else. No noise, no pain, no fire, only Sherlock's body against his, his lips slowly opening. Like in a trance, John gently pried his own mouth open in as much of a synchronous movement as he managed, careful to keep himself tightly pressed against Sherlock's face. He felt the arms around him tighten, the hand behind his head holding him in an iron grip.

As if on instinct, John closed his eyes, shutting out the blurry vision of slightly reddish water around them, barring his mind to the view of more falling debris. A steady breath was tentatively pushed into his mouth. He took it, breathed in as shallow as he could, and gently gave it back. He felt the other mouth receive again, lips pressed together tightly. Breathe in. Breathe out. He knew they had to go slow, to preserve the tiny amount of oxygen between them.

A fluttering feeling settled in his stomach that John tried to quickly put down to lack of oxygen. But a tiny part of his mind realized that with anyone else, this could merely be a lifesaving scenario. With Sherlock, it felt incredibly intimate. Despite their dire situation, this made him feel safe beyond logical reason. It was beyond surreal.

After another breath between them, John was beginning to feel lightheaded. He pushed against the instinct to breathe out of his nose. Sherlock's hand was fisting into his cardigan, struggling with the strain as much as he was. John knew that in addition to the difficult breathing, they both had to fight to stay underwater, to resist the human urge to strive towards air. The steady pull of the receding water wasn't helping, either. His grip on Sherlock's face intensified as their joint breathing became more and more shallow. This could not go on for much longer.

The pain in his shoulder flared up as his composure weakened. Despite his efforts, his hand slipped from Sherlock's face just as his friend's hand loosened his grip on his head as well. He blinked his eyes open, painfully against the chlorine and blurring with the first signs of approaching unconsciousness. He felt Sherlock sharply pull one last breath, gasping and unable to control it. John pulled back, a few errant bubbles escaping his lips.

Sherlock's face was not an inch away, and something passed between their eyes. John's heart beat faster at what he saw: unguarded fear. Sherlock was struggling much more than John, and was beginning to suspect he wouldn't last until they reached the surface. Unfortunately, Sherlock's deductions of the kind were usually correct. Fighting the dizziness, John hoped that his army training had somewhat provided for situations such as these.

He quickly began pulling upwards. Sherlock kicked his feet, holding on to John with one arm. About halfway up, John felt the arm slacken _. Of all the times to be right about something_ , John cursed. Sherlock's eyes became unfocused and closed; his lips parted, releasing the last of their shared air into the water. He began sinking back down. John felt a panic grip him, spurring him on, even as unconsciousness threatened to overwhelm him. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he gripped Sherlock in his arms despite the pain in his shoulder. He kicked upwards with one more shove. Just as he felt his vision blacken, his head broke the surface.

He quickly pulled in a deep breath, then another one, and then coughed violently as acid smoke and heat assaulted his airways. Sherlock hung in his arms, unresponsive. John turned himself so he could grip onto his torso easily and found a foothold in the wall of the pool. The waterline had sunk about a foot. He pressed Sherlock's limp form against the walls, noticing at once that he wasn't breathing. With a desperate grunt, he wrestled his good shoulder underneath Sherlock's and shoved upwards and forwards, hoping his leverage was enough to get the tall man out of the water.

Thankfully, Sherlock was not heavy, and something in John's panic seemed to give him strength. He felt the weight of the body rolling onto the poolside floor, and wasted no time to heave himself out of the water before his arm gave in completely. He registered the trail of watered down blood he left as he dragged himself next to Sherlock's body.

John quickly wiped a hand down his face and over his eyes to steady himself. His medical mind kicked in fully now and he leaned over Sherlock, tilting his head back on the tiled floor. He lowered his lips to the silent body, one hand holding his nose, the other to his slackened jaw.

He pushed his barely gained breath into his friend. He counted, then placed his hands in practiced movements on Sherlock's chest. Compress. Count. Breathe. The CPR and the surrounding smoke aggravated his own lightheadedness but he didn't slow down. Finally, after a forever during which John's mind went blank except for his movements, Sherlock suddenly sputtered and coughed. John sighed in relief and quickly rolled him to the side, allowing him to expel the excess water.

"Sherlock," he rasped, realizing how faint and weak his own voice sounded. He clenched his teeth to a sudden onslaught of pain. His hand went involuntarily to his shoulder and came away, covered in blood.

Sherlock quickly came to his senses and turned. "J-John," he coughed, his voice croaking. He sat up and wide eyes took in John's state. He looked at the wound. He didn't bother with many words.

"We need to get out," he managed. He went to his knees and slipped an arm under John's good shoulder. John winced with the effort, but with Sherlock's help managed to get himself on his feet. Slipping on the wet and bloodied floor, they stumbled together towards the nearest intact looking door, both coughing and gasping for air. They both pulled their sodden shirts over their mouths and noses against the thick smoke and tried to keep low, Sherlock supporting John as they made their way through piles of sizzling debris towards a corridor with an exit sign. Thankfully, the fire escape at the back of the pool was not blocked. The door had been blown clean from its hinges and the air was pulling at the smoke inside, drawing it out.

As quickly as possible, they ducked outside into a dark, empty parking lot. The cold air felt fresh and soothing after the heat inside. John focused on breathing, but he felt his senses becoming more and more dulled, surrendering to the pain. He stumbled and Sherlock gripped him tighter with both arms to keep him from falling.

Finally, Sherlock must have decided they'd gone far enough and dropped to the ground with a grunt, lowering John as gently as he could. John was only vaguely aware of Sherlock propping himself up against a wall and pulling John to him so he was lying in his lap. Looking up he saw the only thing that was still clear to him.

The light of the fire flickered and shimmered on Sherlock's cheeks and was reflected in his eyes. The doctor's trained eye recognized exhaustion following near-drowning, cheeks flushed with the effort of dragging John, and compromised breathing, but no apparent further injuries. His strained face was wet and sooty, dark curls flattened against his forehead. John felt a stab of pride and fondness for his friend. They'd gotten each other out of there, and Sherlock was very much alive. That was good. His eyes locked onto John's and he was slightly surprised to note that he'd never seen Sherlock looking so worried.

"How bad is it," the detective rasped.

"Bit... not good," John mumbled. His throat was raw and dry and a weak cough rattled through him. He was losing blood fast. At this rate...

Thankfully, Sherlock was quick on the uptake. He pulled out his phone from his pocket, then put it aside. "Dead," he stated matter-of-factly. He maneuvered out of his soaked jacket whilst balancing John on his knees and threw it aside. "Too wet," he swore, getting increasingly agitated at his lack of resources.

As if on cue, John felt himself shivering all over. Sherlock looked him over quickly. "You're freezing. I need to get you out of these clothes."

John managed a weak smile. "Can't get enough, can you?" He managed. "Buy me a drink fi..." he was interrupted by another shiver and a coughing fit. He felt the cold from the clothes, the floor and the wind bite into his bones.

Sherlock cocked a half-smile and began peeling away John's cardigan, which was soaked in water and blood. "I'll make you a deal, doctor," he rumbled quietly with a raised eyebrow. "You stay with me and I'll buy you as many drinks as you like." _What a silly thing to say,_ John wondered in his hazy mind, _of course I'll stay with you. I'll always stay with you. I've never been happier in my life._ He wasn't sure, at this point, he mumbled these incoherent things or merely thought them.

Sherlock looked at him with deepening worry. He gently pried the sleeves over John's arms and tossed away the cardigan. Then, he propped John up on his lap and his delicate fingers began deftly undoing the buttons on John's checkered shirt. John chuckled lightly, then winced from the movement. "You're... very good at that," he mumbled. "How's that?"

Sherlock smirked and John felt his heart give a little lurch. "Wouldn't you like to know," the detective drawled quietly. John managed a weak chuckle.

Sherlock finished his ministrations and gently pulled the shirt sleeves over one arm, then the other. John winced with the effort of holding his shoulder still. Finally, Sherlock put it aside and examined the bullet wound. John gathered from Sherlock's look that it was more than _a bit not good_.

He remembered the last time he'd gotten shot in that very place and quickly considered the possible complications due to the previous scars. He was, simply put, worried. Realization set in that if they weren't found soon, he would not survive this.

Sherlock picked up his phone again. "Sorry, doctor," he said, his casual words not quite able to disguise the panic in his voice. "It's not the best for this purpose, but needs must," he said. John realized what he was doing when he wrapped his damp shirt around John's shoulder in a tourniquet, pressing the phone down onto the wound. John flinched from the pain and clenched his teeth. "Got nothing for the back, I'm afraid, but I'll try to put pressure on it," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse. "Just a moment," he added.

John faintly noticed that Sherlock had unbuttoned his shirt and was taking it off quickly. The firelight danced on the slender body next to him. Gently elevating John's torso in his arms, Sherlock bunched up the shirt and pressed it onto the wound in the back of his shoulder. "There," he said, before his eyes darted around the parking lot, no doubt looking for anything that might help or a way to attract attention. John knew his friend couldn't carry or drag him for long, so staying here, keeping him still and avoiding some of the blood loss was their best option. The explosion must have attracted attention, so their hope was in waiting.

"Yes," John mumbled. "Well done." His eyes started drooping closed. "You'd make a great... assistant."

"John? John!" Sherlock's grip on his arm increased and sent a stab of pain into him, tethering him to consciousness. "Wake up. Stay here. Remember the drinks? You can have all the drinks! John!"

"Still... here," John muttered, pulling a faint smile despite the throbbing in his arm. "Cold though."

Sherlock shifted a little and pulled his arms tighter around him, making sure to keep the pressure on the wound. John pulled up his injured arm, resting his palm on Sherlock's chest. The skin felt soft and warm, despite their involuntary bath. The wind was drying them both, and even though it was cold, it was better than being _wet_ and cold. He hummed a small sigh of content as a little of Sherlock's body heat seeped into him. He noticed Sherlock was smiling, his face now quite close. John studied his pale eyes, dancing with the firelight. _They're really quite extraordinary_ , he thought dumbly. _I wish I could look at them some more._ Sherlock's arms on his bare skin also felt undeniably pleasant. He was gently rubbing his arm with his hand, trying to create a bit more warmth. His breath was ghosting over John's face, creating a faint mist in the cold air.

"Are you cold?" John managed in almost a whisper.

"No," Sherlock simply answered. "But if I were, better that I freeze to death than you bleed to death."

"Don't say.. that," John said, frowning. All the same, there was something in the detective's voice that arrested his thoughts. His light-headedness was becoming more pronounced every second. He was running out of time. Somewhere in his mind he felt something slot into place. That warm, pleasant feeling in his stomach suddenly turned into a jolt of panic. He realized he didn't mind dying in Sherlock's arms, strangely enough, but there was something he needed to say, something he'd been meaning to say, but he'd never found the right time. Suddenly, it _mattered,_ more so than he'd thought before.

"Sherlock," he said. His answer was simply a deep rumble in the chest he was resting against. "I need to tell you... something," he managed with a sleepy voice.

Sherlock frowned again and he raised a hand to John's face, patting him lightly on the cheek to keep him awake. "Oh no, don't start like that. You can tell me whatever it is when we get to the hospital, all right? An ambulance is on its way. Can't you hear the sirens? Just stay awake until then, please," he rambled.

John vaguely registered that Sherlock never said 'please' to anyone. At least it never sounded as sincere as it did now. He swallowed hard. "Shut up," he managed. "I just..." John mustered the last ounces of bravery he had. "What I said earlier. I don't actually mind," he mumbled.

"What?" Sherlock's brows pulled together in confusion. His hand still rested on John's cheek, his thumb absently brushing over his temple.

"People might talk. I don't care," he brought out between small gasps, and gave Sherlock a gentle smile. It felt nice, what he was doing with his hand. Perhaps it would have been nice to feel that again. The rumbling in the chest and the warmth was also something he'd miss. The last thing he saw before the blackness took him were two bright eyes staring down into him with shock and worry.


	3. Friends

**One Breath: Friends**

Sherlock brushed his fingers lightly against John's cheek. "John?" There was no response. He tried shaking him a little and patting his face, raising his voice... but the man in his arms was quiet.

He felt his heart thump heavily as something stung his eyes. He blinked. "John. Wake up."

 _I don't actually mind..._

God, of all the dramatic, stupid, pig-headed... "Why? Why would you say something like this to me now, when I can't..." Well, what, Sherlock? He asked himself. What were you gonna do about it? _I could have said something, anything. I could have told him that I don't mind either. But he knew, didn't he?_

Sherlock had actually given this subject some thought a while ago. He was observant, and whilst not very experienced in human relationships, he was very good at detecting certain hints. The way John looked at him sometimes when he thought he wasn't paying attention. Of course, he always paid attention. He'd also caught himself sometimes stealing appreciative glances in the direction of his doctor, whenever he did something surprisingly brilliant or genuinely laughed at something Sherlock said...

A sudden throb of pain went through him. He'd had to concede a while ago that these somewhat distracting feelings for his flatmate existed and had put them on a shelf for further study. A puzzle to work on in time. Now he was out of time. Somehow, this upset him more than he would have admitted.

Suddenly, he heard noises. Cars were pulling up out front, and the siren of an ambulance was coming closer, then was switched off. He thought quickly and looked around. There was nothing to attract attention with, so he opted to shout as loudly as he could instead. His bellowing was made difficult by his sore throat, but finally, a yellow-vested policeman saw him through the rubble and quickly pulled out his walkie-talkie.

"We need an ambulance!" Sherlock shouted, and found that his voice was shaking. Come to think of it, his entire body was shaking. Something wet was running down his cheeks. Part of his brain noted that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and that he was clearly in shock. But that was secondary right now. First, he had to get John into an ambulance.

As firefighters made their way through the debris and an ambulance came speeding around the building to the car park, he lowered his face to John's briefly and brushed a gentle kiss on his temple. John's face felt incredibly cold and made him flinch away. Before he could check on his pulse, however, two paramedics appeared to take over.

He felt his arms gently loosened and John taken from him. "He's been shot," he informed them, and the woman simply nodded. His mind felt sluggish, crashing after the adrenaline high. The paramedics out John on a stretcher carried him as quickly as they could back to the ambulance, shouting his vital signs and preparing emergency procedures.

The other people around him were a blur. Sherlock vaguely noticed being checked through and provided with a blanket. Someone led him over to the ambulance and maneuvered him inside, to sit with his friend. His head was feeling feverish and he stared unblinking at the paramedics hooking John up to an IV.

When they made to leave, the woman buckled him in, then closed the doors of the ambulance from inside and shouted for her colleague to leave. John was lying on the gurney beside him, looking pale and cold. He reached out, his hand shaking, the other still clutching the rescue blanket to his naked shoulders. His fingers brushed John's, then tentatively grasped his hand and held on.

The only thing that registered outside of them was the woman, gently placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "He's gonna make it," she said. Sherlock's eyes snapped to hers and he glanced her up and down quickly.

 _Married, happily. A child. Intelligent: She wasted no breath on idle prattle but went straight to the question he needed answered. Confident in her professional opinion. Worked this job for 15 years, seen a lot of dying and knows how to deal with it. Dexterous hands. Doesn't smoke or drink. Had enough sleep the night before and eats healthy. Trustworthy._

Sherlock felt his face relax. He nodded. He'd never wasted time to think much of the morons he usually had to work with on emergencies. Perhaps she was an exception. Or perhaps he was feeling generous because she'd told him John would be all right.

~ SH ~

It was exactly 20 hours and 34 minutes after John had been shot, and Sherlock was bored. He was sitting on a hospital bed, his legs dangling out over the side, his shoes discarded on the floor. He was wearing a white uniform hospital-issued t-shirt over his dirty pants from the night before. His arm was hooked up to an IV drip. He wasn't entirely sure what he needed it for, but it had something to do with people prattling on about shock, malnutrition and some painkillers for his throat, which had been injured by the almost-drowning and the breathing in of heavy fumes.

He, again, wasn't entirely sure how, but he had surprised the hell out of DI Lestrade, who had shown up some hours after the incident. Lestrade apparently had been woken up in the middle of the night because of the emergency, and some part of Sherlock deduced that it wasn't because he was investigating it, but because there was a standing order to inform him of any and all trouble concerning Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

Lestrade had approached the room warily, as if afraid Sherlock might bite him, and then shown surprise and amusement that he had let a nurse treat him without biting _her_. He'd had the good sense to not burden Sherlock with inane prattling but had merely inquired how John was doing. Apparently there was no sign of Jim Moriarty, and since Sherlock couldn't throw any light on the matter beyond telling him what happened, Lestrade left again to get some more sleep. He didn't bother to tell Sherlock to do the same. There was something so be said, Sherlock thought, for people who knew you well.

He was mildly surprised at himself, if he was being honest. He'd never let any hospital personnel treat him before in a way that didn't result in one of the nurses starting to cry and doctors waving charts around angrily, cursing him to hell. But today he'd just let them do whatever they wanted; he was currently incredibly preoccupied with something other than his own body. Something currently lying asleep in the hospital bed next to his.

Exactly 11 hours and 28 minutes ago, John had come to. He was hooked up to a heart monitor and several other gizmos Sherlock didn't pay any attention to. What mattered was that his eyes blinked open blearily in the morning sunshine falling in through the window.

Sherlock had stood by his side immediately and grabbed his hand. "John?"

"Sherlock," he managed, his lips dry. And then he smiled and gripped his hand tighter and Sherlock felt like his feet had suddenly lifted several inches of the floor. It was a most peculiar sensation, one that he fully intended to investigate further in future.

Sherlock grinned at his friend and relief flowed through him in waves. "I won't ask how you're feeling as I'm certain you feel dreadful. No need to dwell on it. Here, you should drink something," he rattled out, handing John a cup from his bedside table. John smiled weakly. He took the drink and with Sherlock's help managed a few mouthfuls before he had to lie back down.

"Thanks," he said, coughing a little.

Sherlock searched his friend's eyes intently. He did not know what was wrong with him today, but somehow he found himself speaking without thinking for once. "I'm glad you're back with me," he said quietly. He was leaning over his flatmate and sounding board. And suddenly felt that none of these labels adequately described what he wanted to express. Was he becoming victim to the sentiments he hated so? He cataloged his own bodily reactions to seeing John alive and on the mend: _elevated heart rate, curious weightless feeling in his extremities_ , and ah, yes, John was smiling contentedly at him in response now, _slight weakness in the knees_.

"Me too," he'd said, and gone back to sleep.

Hours later, John was now peacefully sleeping off his injuries instead of being unconscious, and Sherlock was still by his side, watching his favourite face become less strained over time.

He was bored and he was becoming somewhat irritated. He'd begun to explore John's eyes when he had woken up. Not many words had been exchanged, but John's eyes seemed to be telling entire novels of meaning just by looking at him. People were usually not so expressive. That particular feat warranted further study. Lots of further study, if Sherlock had his way. He had difficulties with these kinds of things: emotional cues or hints. John was much better at that. But John was asleep. And he didn't want John to be asleep. He wanted him up and about, listening to him, asking clever questions and telling him how brilliant he was. He wanted to surprise him by making tea for once or by asking him before he used his laptop. Most of all, he wanted to devote entire days just studying his friend's eyes. And perhaps his mouth.

A sudden frustrated groan escaped his lips and he rubbed his hands over his face and rubbed them through his curls for what seemed the hundredth time that night. The image of John and him clung together underwater, sharing their breath, was seared into his brain, pushing away most other things. It was certainly the most intimate thing they'd ever done, and, come to think of it, the most intimate thing _he'd_ ever done with anyone, period. And now he couldn't shake the thought of John's lips, especially as they were _right there_. Sherlock scowled at his intense frustration and got up to pace the room instead.

Then there was the image of a bleeding John in his arms. He had come pretty close to losing him last night. Both of them could have died. Perhaps he should remind John of what he'd said before he'd lost consciousness to see how he reacted when he was back to his old self. Perhaps he should do some of the things that had sprung to his mind in the middle of the night, to _show_ him exactly how little he cared what other people thought what they did or did not do together. Another shudder went through him. This would not do. These strange new sensations, whilst fascinating, were definitely a distraction of the most annoying calibre. He tried to put them aside on his 'figure out later' shelf.

He absently noted that the IV drip on his arm was long empty and he ripped the needle out of his arm. He pressed the heel of his hand on his elbow, stopping the bleeding, and ripped his arm free of the taped tube. He contemplated simply removing his hand immediately, but he'd probably bleed all over the white hospital bed. In his mind, he heard John's voice point out that that was _a bit not good_.

He hopped off the bed, opened the door with his elbow and walked into the corridor. The hospital was darkened, it was late, and he saw nobody around. A little down the hall, Sherlock found a small medical cart. Still grasping his arm with his hand, he tried to rummage through the things on the cart to find a plaster or something.

He was interrupted by a friendly, gruff voice from down the corridor. "Looking for a fix?"

He glanced up to see Detective Inspector Lestrade come towards him, grinning. He pulled a face and the detective laughed. "No, just something to get my hand back," Sherlock muttered, and Lestrade took a look at his arm.

"Ah. Yes," he said, and placed a bag he'd been carrying on the floor. He began looking through the drawers on the cart, much easier to do with two hands free. He finally pulled out a roll of plaster and cut off a strip. "Here, let me."

Sherlock nodded and made to grab it, but Lestrade pulled it back. "Hold out your arm, it's easier," he said generously. A snide remark rose to Sherlock's lips immediately, but something stopped him. Again, he realized it would be less annoying to just let the DI do this than to get into an argument with him about it. He sighed and held out his arm, taking away his hand when Lestrade was ready with the plaster.

Lestrade eyed Sherlock thoughtfully and was about to say something when a startled sound came from next to them. A door closed and a nurse came out of the ladies' restrooms. "What are you doing?!" she asked, quite angrily. "You can't just help yourselves, this is a hospital!" She took the roll of plaster from Lestrade and gave them both a glare.

Sherlock was ready with his typical deductions and an appropriate insults regarding her weak bladder and leaving hospital equipment out of her sight, but Lestrade cut him off with a genial smile. "I'm sorry, my friend here has accidentally torn his plaster off and was looking for a new one. We didn't mean to be a bother. Have a good night," he smiled. Sherlock recognized when Lestrade was being _charming_ , and saw the nurse blush ever so slightly. She muttered something about the rules, and began getting her cart in order. Lestrade apologized again, picked up his bag and shuffled back into the hospital room, pushing Sherlock ahead of him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and quirked a smile at the DI. "Effective," he conceded, the closest he'd ever come to complimenting Lestrade.

"Yeah, well, sometimes things are resolved much quicker when you don't throw insults at people," Lestrade pointed out.

"Yes, thank you I'd grasped the lesson," Sherlock snapped, somehow irritated that he'd come to the same, boring conclusion. He stepped over to the sink in the room and quickly washed the blood of his hands.

Lestrade grinned. "Got you and John some clothes and things from your flat. Mrs. Hudson sends her love," he added and tossed Sherlock the bag.

Sherlock looked at him. That was... entirely unnecessary, intrusive and sentimental and... "Thanks," he managed.

"Well go on," Lestrade motioned to the bag, "I can wait." Sherlock now saw that he'd produced a small folder from his jacket. The DI sat down on the uncomfortable hospital chair and slapped the folder onto the small table with a meaningful glance and a smirk. _A case!_

Sherlock had never dressed so quickly. He went to the bathroom and changed into fresh trousers and a shirt, brushed his teeth and threw some water into his face. He gave himself a cursory look in the mirror. He looked tired. Faint lines of worry were still creasing his eyes and mouth. A new thought struck him; had he ever looked like that before he'd met John? Perhaps he'd sometimes looked like hell after drugs or skipping sleep for days... but this was different. He'd seen the same look on people's faces on many a crime scene and always discarded it as a pitiable side effect of sentiment. _So this is what happens when you care_ , his brain snided. _When something happens to someone you..._ For his own sanity, he left the sentence unfinished.

As he stepped back into the room, his eyes fell on John's sleeping form and his previous strange, irritated annoyance returned. He noticed with surprise that sitting beside John, watching him sleep and holding his hand, seemed to exert almost the same pull on him as that unopened case file on the table. Almost.

He tore his gaze away for now and noticed Lestrade watching him with a twinkle in his eyes. He glared at him and straightened his shirt collar, folding himself neatly into a plastic chair.

"So. Seeing as you've come explicitly to alleviate my boredom, let's get to it," he drawled. Lestrade grinned and slid the folder over.


	4. Cases

**One Breath: Cases**

~~~SH~~~

 **AN: Thanks for the lovely reviews, they really made my day! xxx**

~~~SH~~~

Despite everything, Greg Lestrade simply liked watching the man work. Sherlock was closely reading the file he'd brought, examined the pictures and _thought._ In between long silences, he asked very specific questions which Lestrade had mostly been able to answer. When he wasn't sure about a certain detail (such as "was the victim a healthy eater" or "when was she last on a bus"), Sherlock waved it away as if it mattered little. Lestrade was surprised, he'd expected his friend to berate him for his lack of thoroughness – something he'd gotten used to over the last years. But the man seemed almost uncharacteristically distracted. Occasionally, he glanced at the sleeping John, as if making sure he was still there.

After about two hours of intense study, Sherlock's eyes finally lit up. "Ah," he sighed with that predatory grin of his.

Lestrade merely leaned forward expectantly. Sherlock took a deep breath. "It was an accident," he stated confidently.

Greg's eyebrows shot up. "An accident?" he exclaimed. Sherlock looked annoyed, like he always did when people stated the obvious, or, even worse, asked him _if he was sure_.

"Yes. You can release her husband. He loved his wife, but he's having an affair with his fitness instructor, mostly instigated by her I'm sure, and he feels incredibly guilty about it. The tears here and here," Sherlock pointed to a few miniscule pixels on two of the photos, "indicate that she didn't die on the doorstep, but that she fell down the stairs. She had a weak knee from an operation (he pointed to a faint scar), as her husband well knows, hence the guilt. The woman's general build suggests that they used to do physical exercise together, but haven't done so since her operation. He probably feels like inadvertently, he is responsible for her death; a silly human sentiment that only drew more suspicion on him. Look through the cellar or garage to find something that is usually found in use in the house. Perhaps he left something lying around that tripped her up, a cable or something." Sherlock took a breath.

"He acted out of fear that it may appear like he'd pushed her. So he made it look like she was surprised and killed by a burglar instead, but there is no evidence to support forced intrusion. Also, a burglar wouldn't hit someone like that in the front of the head. They'd cosh her on the back. Naturally, as he predicted, he's the prime suspect, having motive, opportunity and," Sherlock flicked to a specific sheet of paper, pointing, "no alibi. The fitness instructor is lying about him being with her, probably because she suspects he murdered his wife to be with her. I expect the affair will not continue for much longer," Sherlock added almost as an afterthought. He gathered the papers together and folded them neatly together again.

Lestrade gave an impressed huff. "That was bloody brilliant," he said. Sherlock smirked indulgently. Usually, Greg tried to reign in his appreciation for the man; he didn't want to inflate his ego even more. But tonight, he felt generous and sympathetic. Sherlock had been through a lot the evening before, and was holding up admirably.

After a moment of silence, he looked over at John. "Be sure to tell the doctor about this when he wakes up. He can put it in his blog," he grinned at Sherlock.

Something flitted over the detective's eyes, almost too quick to notice. "I'm sure he will," Sherlock said vaguely.

Lestrade watched him intently. There was something on Sherlock's mind, beyond just worry for his friend. Before he could reign himself in, he plunged in. "Sherlock, what's the matter?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, looking surprised. Hardly anyone ever asked him that, Lestrade mused. Perhaps John did. Usually, he'd bite someone's head off for it. "What's the matter with what?" he asked, sounding a little irritated.

Greg took a breath. "With you. There was something in your statement you... omitted this morning. Something irrelevant to the case, but I noticed you editing the story while you told it to me."

Sherlock frowned in annoyance. He hated it when someone managed to one-up him. He waited for the inevitable barrage of insults. But this time, Sherlock just stared ahead of him and then sighed. Perhaps it was the long night, the confidential tone of Lestrade's voice, or whatever else, but...

"Very perceptive, Detective Inspector," he drawled. He paused, and then went on. "Yes, something has me puzzled, and I would..." he had to pause again and looked at Lestrade as if making up his mind. "I would value your opinion on it."

Lestrade's eyebrows disappeared completely under his short fringe. This was unheard of.

Sherlock read his mind instantly. "Yes, yes, incredible, fantastical, and under strictest confidentiality, because if you breathe a word to anyone I will find ways to make..."

"Alright, alright," Lestrade raised his hands to interrupt. "I get it. Not a word, Sherlock, I promise." He smiled.

Sherlock took another deep breath and stared back at John's bed. "When we were facing Moriarty, I got him to come over to me to take... to talk to me." Greg sensed another omission, but let it go. "He stood between us, his back to John," Sherlock continued. "It was a perfect opportunity. John used to be a soldier, after all. He grabbed him in a choke hold and tried to get me to... leave." Greg saw him swallow. He realized immediately what Sherlock's 'puzzle' was. He felt a surge of respect for the doctor.

"I didn't go, and by then Moriarty's snipers had moved. Someone was aiming at me instead." Sherlock left it at that.

"I see," Lestrade said quietly.

Sherlock looked at him, narrowing his eyes. After a moment, he nodded.

Instead of making Sherlock spell it out, Lestrade leaned forwards on his elbows, looking at his friend intently. "You're puzzled as to why John did it. Why he'd have sacrificed himself for you," he said bluntly.

Sherlock nodded again, looking, as he had said, quite puzzled, a deep frown on his forehead.

Lestrade sighed. He knew Sherlock liked to describe himself as a sociopath, and honestly, he didn't buy it. Yet he knew that this kind of behaviour was definitely new for the man. Now how to explain this in the most delicate terms?

"Has it occurred to you that John did it because he likes you? I believe he considers you his best friend," Lestrade began cautiously.

Sherlock huffed. "Of course it has occurred to me. But from my observation of people this was somewhat... unusual behaviour. I believed people who are friends to be more distant towards each other, for all their put-on joviality." His voice had taken on a definite sneer there. Lestrade thought about this for a moment. Sherlock was a keen observer – many people called others their friends, but how much did they really _care_ when push came to shove? How many would willingly take a bullet for each other?

"Well," Lestrade said after a moment. He had eyes, of course. He'd seen the two of them together on crime scenes. He'd heard the occasional rumour. This was dangerous territory.

He cleared his throat. "Look, Sherlock I'm not sure it's really my place to..."

"What, Inspector?" Sherlock said dismissively. "You know I put more stock in honesty than in socially acceptable behaviour. Don't worry about offending me. If I didn't want to hear what you thought I wouldn't have asked."

Greg sighed. It might be healthy if more people approached conversations this way. "All right then," he said. "Have you ever considered that John might feel... more than friendship towards you?"

Sherlock swallowed again and studied the table surface. "Yes," he said curtly.

Greg smiled and let out a breath. "And?"

Sherlock looked up. "And what?"

"And does that not provide an answer to your problem?"

Sherlock searched Lestrade's eyes. He almost flinched from the intense gaze. He could see how the doctor would be... intrigued by the man. He smiled at that thought.

"You think that's it?" Sherlock asked, incredulously.

Greg laughed a little. "Why not?" It was quite something to see the detective so puzzled.

"I thought," Sherlock began, then paused again in thought. "I thought there was something more to it, that's all. Something more complicated. But as you say, it would certainly explain his foolish actions." Despite his words, Greg heard a fondness in his voice.

"So... how do you feel about that, then?" The words were hardly out of his mouth that Lestrade realized he'd asked the wrong thing.

Sherlock looked at him with stormy features. "Don't psychoanalyze me, Lestrade. Others have tried and failed." He pushed himself out of the plastic chair and turned his back. "Thank you for your insight into the matter, it is noted," he said coldly. He turned a little. "The distraction," he nodded to the case file, "was also welcome, but now I am tired and you should leave."

Greg cocked a smile and got up, shaking his head. Back to normal then. With a few exceptions, he thought, glancing at John. He gathered up the folder and his jacket and made for the door. When he was almost through the door, he held it open for a moment and looked back, unable to keep quiet one last thought.

"You know, you're a lucky guy, Sherlock. I hear he's quite a catch," he winked and quickly left, before Sherlock found something to throw.

~~SH~~

 _Cold eyes bored into his, a nasty smirk carved on the man's features. Behind him, the worried and intense look in his friend's eyes. The man turned to John, too close, and a stab of possessiveness jolted through Sherlock. "I'm afraid you've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson..."_

Sherlock awoke with a jerk. He found himself lying on the table with his arms folded, a pain stabbing annoyingly into his neck. _Fallen asleep on the table, how pathetic,_ he thought. He usually never fell asleep if he could help it.

He rubbed his hand over his face and sat up. It was still dark outside, the room glaringly lit by the ceiling lamp. Sherlock realized these weren't exactly perfect sleeping conditions for his friend and he folded himself out of his chair. His back ached, bloody plastic hospital chairs. He crossed to the wall and flipped the light switch. Immediately, the room was bathed in an orange glow from street lamps and hospital equipment around John's bed.

He gazed at John's sleeping form. _Loyal._ Moriarty's words still rang through his mind. Yes, John had shown his hand. He was perhaps – all right, almost certainly – not as clever and brilliant as Sherlock, but he _was good. Very Good. Quick on the uptake. Understanding. And loyal, for some unfathomable reason._ Too loyal. He'd made a move and shown his hand rather than keep himself safe.

 _Have you ever considered that John might feel more than friendship towards you?_

 _People talk. I don't care._

Sherlock moved closer to the bed. He wished, once again, that his friend were awake so he could question him about this. Not with words as such, but he wished to look into the puzzling eyes until he found out what he needed to know goddammit.

Sherlock was at a loss. He felt bored, but not painfully so. Looking at John sleeping somehow alleviated his need to do something. It was very strange, being slowed down like this. Definitely a new sensation, one that needed exploring and figuring out. But what was he going to do with himself for the rest of the time in the hospital? There was no emergency he could help with; Lestrade surely would have told him.

 _How do you feel about that, then?_

Sherlock tried to push the question away. He'd already concluded from his body's reactions that there was some kind of attraction; or he could be having miniature seizures coinciding with John looking at him, which was, of course, a slim possibility. No need to dwell on it, though. Not now.

He rubbed at the ache in his neck and felt a weariness in his arms and legs that still hadn't gone away after their struggle in the pool. John would probably tell him to 'take it easy' for a few days, whatever that meant, to recover from the ordeal, to get some sleep. Sherlock scoffed, but conceded that right now, another kip sounded rather good.

He stared at the bed some more, trying to make up his mind. There was another bed, of course. But it was cold and uninviting in comparison. John was smaller and didn't need that much space. A soft feeling rushed through his stomach as he contemplated how fond he was of his friend's general proportions. Absurd notion. What had his friend's body type ( _deceptively strong,_ his brain volunteered helpfully)to do with anything? He scoffed again but made up his mind.

~~SH~~

John slowly felt the haze in his mind recede as he became aware of his surroundings. He remembered where he was, but wasn't sure how much time had passed since he'd woken up last. Something had roused him, but he still felt foggy and disoriented. Strong painkillers, probably morphine, he noted, that explained the feeling of having his head wrapped in cotton wool. A bandage on his shoulder, his left arm (goddammit, not again) bound tightly against his torso. The faint beeping of hospital machinery. Very quiet snoring close to his ears. Wait, _snoring_?

And then his befuddled brain continued: something soft, ah, yes, hair, pressed against his neck. The weight of an arm on top of him, a warm hand resting on his chest. Legs pressed up next to his. Long legs. Thin fingers. Curly hair. And a familiar, pleasant smell. _Oh._

John cracked his eyes open slowly. The room was dark, only lit by an orange glow. He saw the light reflected on his friend's head, nestled cosily against his right shoulder. For a second, he merely looked at him, gathering his senses. The warmth of Sherlock's body against his felt comforting and reassuring. The hand on his chest, rising slowly with each of John's breaths, looked delicate in the faint light. John smiled slowly, a fond fluttering warmth rising in his chest. Sherlock was breathing deeply and slowly. John had never seen him so relaxed.

However, he noted that his right arm, trapped between them, was aching and numb from the weight. John flexed his fingers against Sherlock's body, and pulled very gently, so as not to wake his friend. He lifted his torso a fraction to raise Sherlock off the mattress and slowly rescued his arm. Lying back down, Sherlock shifted a little and nuzzled his face into John's neck. John froze for a second. He felt Sherlock's breath on his skin and his nose almost pressed into his pulse point. His heart sped up and in the silent room, his pulse thundering loudly in his own ears. He faintly wondered whether this would be enough to wake the detective, but Sherlock remained quiet.

John finally relaxed and slowly let out a breath. He manoeuvred his arm around Sherlock and gently wrapped it around his shoulder, pulling him a little closer. John heard a faint content sigh from the area of his shoulder and smiled. This was good. This was fine. They were both alive. And the sudden lightness John was feeling and the amazing man currently wrapped around him made him think, for the first time, that things were perhaps better than fine. They were rather brilliant, really.

He gently nuzzled Sherlock's hair with his nose and allowed himself to press a chaste kiss on the detective's head. And with several new realizations in his mind, he went back to sleep.


	5. Relations

**One Breath: Relations**

 **~~SH~~**

 **AN: Thanks Suealpacamama & Brown Eyed Girl for keeping up with the story and leaving reviews! :-) This is just a short chapter, but the next one will be up directly afterwards. I just had to split them up somewhere.**

 **~~SH~~**

Greg Lestrade walked down the now busy hospital corridor towards John Watson's room. He was carrying a paper cup of coffee and a bundle of folders under his arm. Last night had been... interesting. Working with Sherlock was not a very verbose affair. Yet it was fascinating to watch the consulting detective do, what Greg dubbed, 'his thing', whilst not distracted by an actual crime scene. He found to his surprise that under these circumstances he quite liked the company of the weird genius. It certainly was an improvement over some of the suck-ups and morons he faced every day at the Yard. Sherlock did have a point about some of them.

Then, of course, there had been their little heart-to-heart. Greg thought that if Sherlock was any other man, he'd have taken him out to the nearest pub, bought him a pint, and offered to have a proper chat. Greg was a good listener. But with Sherlock, regular methods did certainly not apply.

As he neared the right room, Greg saw that someone had beaten him to it today. A tall man in an elegant beige suit was standing arrested in the doorway, an umbrella hanging from his arm. He turned around as Greg came closer.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector," he greeted with a smooth smile that Lestrade found a little unsettling. The face looked vaguely familiar. "Making the rounds?" Lestrade was sure he heard a slight sarcastic tone in the voice, but the other man was masking it very well. The man glanced at the folders under the DI's arm. "I'm sure these are merely the... morning papers, and not confidential files from the Yard for my brother's amusement," he added in almost a tut. Greg gripped the folders a little tighter and took a guilty breath. Hang on, brother? Oh dear.

"Oh, where are my manners," the man muttered charmingly. "Mycroft Holmes," he said, extending a hand.

Lestrade shifted his coffee cup to the other hand and shook. Sherlock's brother. That certainly explained the faint resemblance and the instant unwelcome deductions. "Pleasure," he muttered, and then remembered. "Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard," he said, out of habit.

"I know," the older Holmes smirked conspiratorially.

"Do I want to know how?" Greg asked, looking somewhat bemused.

"No, I don't suppose you would," Mycroft said, seemingly considering it. "But please, you are visiting," he said and took a step into the hospital room, opening the door further. Something in his voice sounded incredibly amused.

Greg stepped forward and instantly understood the slightly knowing look on the other man's face.

Sherlock Holmes was curled up on the bed and, for want of a better word, snuggling up to John Watson. His arm was draped casually over the doctor's body, his head resting on his good shoulder. John had his arm around him and his fingers were resting lightly in Sherlock's dark curls. They looked peaceful. Greg felt a sudden affection for his friends. Not so puzzling after all, he thought. He glanced at Mycroft, trying to gauge the man's opinions on this development. "Bloody finally," he said, always the blunt policeman.

Mycroft grinned that creepy knowing smile again. "I know," he said in that same conspiring tone of voice again. He seemed to be enjoying himself, as if he and Lestrade shared a juicy secret. He supposed they now did.

"John's good for him," Greg offered, starting to feel a little awkward.

"Oh! Definitely," Mycroft said smoothly.

"You don't seem surprised."

"Oh no," Mycroft waved away the idea in a gesture reminiscent of his brother. "I was expecting it one of these days, really. Nothing like an exploding building to bring two people together, am I right?"

Greg looked at him, once again trying to decide if the man with the posh accent was being sarcastic or not. "Huh," he said.

"Don't worry, Detective Inspector. I have nothing but my brother's best interests at heart." Bloody Holmeses and their bloody mind-reading, Greg thought.

"I had them under surveillance, of course," the other man went on, glancing at his brother's entangled form. "There have been... certain indications, but to be perfectly honest I thought my brother was too busy being... himself, for it to ever amount to anything."

"Surveillance?" was all Greg managed. He felt as if he was being told something that would inevitably end with the words, 'and now that you know, I'll have to kill you'.

"Oh yes. I forgot. British Government," Mycroft said, in a throwaway voice in which other people might mention a casual hobby. "I have my ways."

"Cor blimey," Lestrade said, glancing between Sherlock and his brother.

"Hmmyees," Mycroft drawled. "Quite an interesting contrast, the two of us, aren't we? I'm mostly interested in keeping things secret, whilst my brother revels in elucidating even the most banal pieces of information."

"Huh," Greg said again. "I'm guessing I wouldn't want to get on your bad side, then," he stated.

"It would not be advisable, no."

"Unless Sherlock got on the job?" Greg suddenly grinned at Mycroft. The man looked surprised and amused at this statement.

"That would be... an interesting experiment," he conceded, with a genuine smile this time.

"Huh." Greg suddenly appreciated that Sherlock merely experimented with body parts and acid, not with secrets and... people.

"Well, um. I better... be going, then," Lestrade said. He stepped out into the corridor again.

"Oh don't on my account," Mycroft offered smoothly with the fakest of polite grins.

"I've got, er, to get back to the Yard anyway. I'll come back later."

"Didn't you want to leave those here?" Mycroft's umbrella was pointed at the folders under Lestrade's arm. "If you'd like, I can keep an eye on them. Make sure nobody unauthorized gets their hands on them."

"Uh," Greg stammered, sweating a little. He wasn't sure what was worse, letting Sherlock have unauthorized access to confidential files, or putting them in the way of a man who seemed like he could make Greg disappear on short notice if he felt like it. "I was just... taking these back," he said lamely, and backed off into the corridor. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes," he added and walked swiftly back to his car.

~ SH ~

Mycroft allowed himself a small, amused smile and gave his umbrella a twirl. He stepped back into the room with the two sleeping men and carefully closed the door. He sat down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. And waited.

About an hour later, he noticed that his brother was waking up. He sat a little straighter and plastered a friendly grin onto his face. No need to be alarming today.

Sherlock smiled contentedly, no doubt realising where he was. Doctor Watson seemed to still be very much asleep. Sherlock blinked and a frown appeared on his face. Now he knows someone else is in the room, Mycroft counted the seconds silently, and now he's seen me. He chuckled inwards at his little brother's predictable mood change. Sherlock looked annoyed, his eyes flashing into Mycroft's direction. Then, he glanced back up at the sleeping John and slowly raised himself on his elbow, careful not to jostle the bed.

"What do you want," he said quietly, sounding bored.

Mycroft sighed. "No need to be like this, Sherlock. I wanted to inform you that as of this morning, I am officially on James Moriarty's trail. We've traced one of his contacts. A plan has been formulated as to how to apprehend him."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then he nodded brusquely. "I'm sure you've got people, but if you need any help, you know where to find me."

Mycroft raised both eyebrows and blinked in genuine surprise. Sherlock smirked. "Indeed I do," Mycroft stated, overly polite now. "And here I thought I was going to have to give you the old 'leave this matter to me' routine." He frowned. "Apparently you've changed your mind about confronting him. Why?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John Watson, sleeping peacefully. His features softened for a split second, before glaring back at his older brother.

"Ah yes, the good doctor," Mycroft intoned pleasantly. He remembered his earlier words to the DI. Nothing like a near-death experience...

"You realize of course that your... association," he raised a suggestive eyebrow, "will always put Doctor Watson in danger of some form or other."

He saw Sherlock grit his teeth and clench his jaw. "Obviously," he sneered.

"Yes, obviously," he mimicked. "And what are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock looked back at his friend and thought for a moment. "Nothing," he said very quietly.

"Nothing?" Mycroft leaned forward, intrigued. "Isn't that rather... unproductive of you?"

"Not at all," Sherlock said. "I assure you, I've never had to put more effort into something in my life."

Mycroft was silent for a moment. He'd never seen his brother in this kind of mood before. Usually, Sherlock complicated most of the actual conversations they had with untoward snide remarks and insults. To hear him actually talk honestly about something like this was fairly out of the ordinary. He waited for his brother to continue.

Sherlock raised his hand and gently brushed some hair out of John's face. "To exclude John would do him more harm than good."

"Hmmyes," Mycroft drawled. "I noticed the absence of his tremor quite early into your acquaintance, as well as the quick loss of his cane."

Sherlock looked up quickly to glare at him. But Mycroft couldn't help it. Perceptiveness ran in their family; as much as he was loath to admit he had anything in common with his little brother. "I don't want to drag him into unnecessary risks, but I won't stop him from working with me," Sherlock said, studying John's face again. "Moriarty..." he paused. "It would be something to go up against him again. He's brilliant. A challenge. Thrilling," he said with fervour.

"Not thrilling enough to risk John, it would seem," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked up sharply, trying to detect the sarcasm or the ridicule. However, Mycroft found he meant it. He'd seen how content Sherlock had looked, and despite what his brother might think, he was quite pleased with this outcome. It amused him that a good, honest man like John Watson had simply waltzed into his brother's life and changed a few things. It was interesting and satisfying to watch, and if it made Sherlock happier, well, that was good for everyone, he concluded.

Sherlock seemed to sense his sincerity. He merely nodded.

Mycroft stood up, stretching a little after being sat on the uncomfortable chair. He pulled sharply on his suit jacket and sleeves, getting ready to go. "Well, this has been nice, Sherlock. I had a 50-50 chance depending on which one of you woke up first, you know. Doctor Watson would have received the usual reminder that if he hurt you, I'd have to kill him."

An expression between a smirk and a scowl settled on Sherlock's face.

"But as it was you, let me simply say: be happy, for once, but... do take care. With him at least."

Sherlock's eyes shifted around a little. He seemed unsure what to say to that, a rare sight indeed.

Mycroft was at the door. "Oh, and if I may say so: good choice, little brother. Good choice. Give Doctor Watson my regards."


	6. New Thoughts

**One Breath: New Thoughts**

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock let out a huff of annoyance. Mycroft was the second person now – well, perhaps the third, counting Mrs. Hudson's enthusiastic approval of John from the beginning – to tell him what a catch the doctor was. Sherlock looked at his friend. All this talk of 'choices' and feelings... He and John hadn't even spoken since what happened. He felt as if a lot of his life had been turned upside down and John wasn't even awake yet. Perhaps he was reading too much into Lestrade and Mycroft's comments. Perhaps he was indulging in these new sensory experiences a little too much. Perhaps John would wake up and things would just go back to the way they were.

 _Oh goodness, I am second-guessing myself. I never do that._ Sherlock felt a slight wave of panic. This was unacceptable. _It would be good if things went back to normal_ , he thought quickly. He suddenly felt madly out of his depth. John never needed to know about his little crisis of faith here in the hospital, about his thoughts and changes of mind about certain things. That would be better, yes. Decidedly safer, too, for both of them.

However, something tugged at his chest at that thought. He glanced down at his sleeping friend. It was very comfortable and familiar, sleeping next to him. The feeling of breath breezing gently through his hair, John's smell, the rising and falling of his chest... that felt nice. He'd always observed other couples and assumed that having to be so close to someone else would be tedious in the extreme. Annoying, restricting, like being tied to a leash. But right now, he felt only lightness and a strange sensation of pleasure worth indulging in. Sherlock usually indulged if he found something he liked. And he did like John Watson.

His steadfast conviction to leave things as they were began breaking down just as John was waking up. For a second, he panicked, and tried to scramble away, but the other man had already opened his eyes. Blinking in the light and shifting a little, John fully noticed Sherlock reclined next to him. He was bent over him still, leaning on one elbow, the other hand resting on John's chest. Too late to run.

Sherlock braced himself for disapproval. But a smile grew on John's face. He looked quite happy, even if he was a little surprised. "Oh," he said, his voice hoarse. "Hello."

It was, without a doubt, the best thing Sherlock had ever heard. He felt warmth spread through his stomach and he grinned at John. The doctor seemed a little taken aback at this, and chuckled. "You all right, then?"

Sherlock scoffed. Of course that would be his first question. He noticed John quickly glancing at his hand, but he didn't say anything, so Sherlock saw fit to leave it where it was. "I'm not the one still hospitalized," he admonished, raising an eyebrow.

John looked him up and down, no doubt scanning for injuries, knowing that Sherlock would never complain out loud if something was wrong with him. "Well," John said with a cursory glance. "With you, not being in hospital isn't exactly concurrent with you being well," he smirked. "But I don't see any injuries."

"Obviously. It was you who got shot." The words were out of Sherlock's mouth before he had a chance to think about it.

John's face fell, and he shifted uncomfortably in his bed. He glanced at his own shoulder. "I was lucky it was just the shoulder, I guess. Again."

Sherlock was slightly miffed that John was frowning and sounding annoyed. Perhaps he should not have brought up the injury. Yes, he was sure that, had it been someone else, John would not have brought it up. Part of him screamed that that was incredibly irrelevant and that a person was either shot or wasn't and they'd better acknowledge the facts and move on. Sentimental traipsing around the topic wasn't helping anyone.

The other part of his brain saw fit to remind him that it was nice seeing John smile and be happy and seeing as that, for some reason, made Sherlock feel better, perhaps he should include this in his reasoning in the future. It was certainly something to consider. Perhaps it should go on the shelf with all the other things he'd recently parked there for further consideration, such as his newfound fascination with another man's lips.

"Sherlock, are you... what's the matter," John asked, tilting his head a little to the side. Sherlock noticed he'd been staring at John, trying to sort out his thoughts. He pulled his head back a little.

"Thinking," he muttered, out of habit.

"About what?"

Sherlock blinked. John had spoken incredibly quietly and serious. He detected a slight tremor in his voice. Sherlock was about to answer him, but then stopped himself. Perhaps this wasn't a good time to bring up a certain shelf full of questions yet.

"Hmm." Sherlock decided to ignore the question and searched John's face instead. He finally had the opportunity to study those dark blue eyes again and he wasn't going to waste it. The look in them was slightly wary, bemused and still exhausted.

"Uh," John finally said. Sherlock didn't react, just kept on exploring John's increasingly befuddled expressions. He noted a faint blush creeping into John's cheeks, which made him instantly look more alive and well. A certain strain belied John's urge to look away, but for some reason he didn't.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" He finally asked, his voice a little higher than usual.

"Just an experiment," Sherlock said, now exploring John's cheekbones, eyebrows and fringe.

"I see. Are you trying to find out how long you can stare me down before I throw you off the bed?"

Sherlock frowned. That was not at all... _Oh_. His gaze dropped to John's lips and found a definite smirk there. He quickly focussed on his eyes again, levelling a half-grin at John. "Well, that was not an outcome I'd predicted, but the history of science is full of unexpected results."

For some reason, a curious feeling of tension had settled in his midsection during his exploration, and it did something odd to his voice. His words had come out quietly, almost drawling, and the effect on his friend was unmistakeable. The faint blush became more noticeable. His eyes widened and his pupils dilated. He swallowed dry and lowered his chin to his chest, a characteristic gesture of increasing nervousness in the doctor. Well, this was interesting. _Unexpected results, indeed_.

His face inched a little closer, almost without his doing. All of a sudden, there seemed to be a magnetic quality to what little space remained between them. He could hear John's breath catch in his throat. He was just about to formulate a plan on how to continue this particular experiment, when a brisk knock on the door stopped him in his tracks. The door was opened immediately, without so much of an acknowledgement from either of them, and Sherlock drew back sharply, gliding off the bed in one fluid movement.

A most unnecessarily high, cheerful voice rang through the room and immediately grated on Sherlock's nerves. A nurse he vaguely recognized came striding in backwards with a cart in tow. "Good morning," she nodded brightly at Sherlock, then turned her attention to John. "And how are we today?"

Sherlock quickly stepped away from the beds and strolled over to the window. The nurse prattled on in the background, checking John's vital signs and asking whether he was in pain and about the feeling in his shoulder. She busied herself with gently removing the taped needle from his arm, dabbing on the pinprick with a cotton piece and placing a plaster on top of it.

Sherlock was watching both nurse and patient with predatory focus. The nurse was clearly taking a little longer than necessary with her ministrations, her palm lingering superfluously on John's arm. She was smiling at him, and he was smiling back, making small talk. There was a crinkle of laughter next to his eyes, his manner charming and natural. The nurse clearly enjoyed this too much. She made John lean forward to fluff up and rearrange his pillows, to which John acquiesced. As he leaned away from her, his eyes strayed to Sherlock and the detective gave him the most intense glare he could muster. John's eyebrows shot up. Sherlock glanced briefly at the nurse, then back at John. John viciously shook his head once and gave him his 'if you make her cry, I'm not talking to you for a week' look. Sherlock smirked.

John leaned back and assured the nurse that there was nothing else he needed, his tone perhaps a little more curt than before. Her chest deflated a little and she picked up her things to leave. "The doctor will see you soon to discharge you," she said with a last lingering look, then left the room with a quick glance and friendly nod at Sherlock.

The second she was out of the door, John sat up abruptly from his nicely fluffed pillows and turned to Sherlock. "What was that?" he asked, sounding amused.

"What."

"You glared at me as if you were going to... I don't know, maul her."

Sherlock's mouth twitched and stifled a laugh. "I was simply conveying my impatience. She was clearly taking too long to remove your needle. It literally takes a minute, I did it myself last night," he added, for good measure. _Besides, she was obviously flirting with you_.

"You did... oh, of course you did," John laughed. "I hope you didn't yell at anyone."

"No, I was perfectly civil. I didn't bleed on the bed or the floor and I even let Lestrade help me." Really, he wasn't sure why he told John in such great detail. It wasn't like he needed approval for his every move.

"You _let Lestrade_.. wow, and I wasn't awake to see it. Pity," John said, deadpan, staring into space with wide eyes. "I would have never let you live it down."

"Obviously," Sherlock grated out. John laughed.

"So, Lestrade was here?"

"He came to check on you. He brought some clothes and things and things from the flat."

"That's nice of him," John said, eyes widened a little in surprise. He looked touched, something that was, Sherlock had to admit to himself, rather endearing. God, there it was again. He was becoming sentimental. He turned away and returned to staring out of the window, suddenly unsure what to say.

"I was wondering how you looked so impeccable again after... what happened last night. I assumed you'd gone home." There was a careful tone of curiosity in John's voice. He was stating facts to avoid asking questions. Why couldn't people just come out and say what they wanted to know? It would save so much time. Whenever Sherlock tried this much more logical approach, however, everyone got flustered, awkward or embarrassed about something or other. Most tedious.

"Two nights."

"Pardon?"

"It was not last night," Sherlock explained. "It was two nights ago."

John grimaced. "I've been out that long, huh? Must have been pretty bad," he mused, with his doctor's mind beginning to analyse the gravity of the situation. "Hand me my chart?"

Sherlock walked over to his bed and picked up the hospital chart to hand to John. Their eyes met. "You nearly died," Sherlock stated as matter-of-factly as he could. He tried to refrain from letting a tremor creep into his voice. Going by John's suddenly pitying look he'd failed.

John gave the chart a cursory glance, his eyes darting to and fro. Finally, he sighed and handed it back to Sherlock. "Ah well, been there, done that," he remarked drily. Sherlock felt a fond smile graze his cheek and he looked at John with a pang of sadness and respect.

"I didn't go home," he said. "Lestrade brought things for both of us." He gestured to a small pile on the second nightstand in the room.

And there it was again. John looked incredibly touched. His mouth opened as if to say something, but he shut it again with a click, smiling at Sherlock instead. In response, Sherlock's heart attempted to launch itself into his throat. It was that odd smile of John's, the one that conveyed pages upon pages of conversation distilled. It was quite a fascinating skill of his. Sherlock only wished he could control his body's reactions to it a bit more. It was getting embarrassing.

He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I could have easily removed that IV drip for you."

"Obviously," John intoned very seriously. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and glared until John chuckled again. It was such a pleasing sound that he decided to not pursue the teasing about the nurse any further. He let himself relax a little and laughed. It was really good to have John back.

Sherlock walked around the second bed again and hopped on it, dangling his legs over the side, grinning as he remembered he hadn't even told John about the case yet.

~ SH ~

John leaned back again, his head resting sideways on the pillow, and just listened. Sherlock was entirely in his element recounting Lestrade's case and how he'd solved it. He described all the clues on the different photographs and in the statements to John in great detail, to the extent that John felt as if he'd been at the crime scene himself. It was mesmerizing.

Perhaps he had a newfound appreciation for Sherlock after coming so close to losing him. Perhaps Sherlock did, too, he mused. He certainly seemed a lot more... _affectionate_ since the pool incident.

John felt flattered in the extreme. His friend liked to show off, but he hardly took the time to really explain one of his solved cases to anyone, except to John. Let alone that he enjoyed it this much. He'd stayed in hospital with John, even though he hated hospitals and was probably bored out of his mind. On top of that, he knew Sherlock never really slept much, so the fact that he felt willing to rest _in his arms_ (when there was a perfectly good bed right here), was humbling, to say the least. John had always thought Sherlock despised touch, seeing as hugging him had always been a challenge. Perhaps it was simply something he wasn't good at but needed nonetheless. Yes, John felt definitely flattered.

And as much as Sherlock liked to think so, John wasn't a complete idiot. He knew his friend and he knew blatant jealousy when he saw it. The pretty nurse had obviously been flirting with him, and Sherlock had obviously noticed.

He suspected the nurse had found out he was a doctor or a former soldier or both, and had made a pass at him mostly for that reason. He knew the implied uniform or the title did impress some people more than others. However, she was pretty and competent, and perhaps even interesting enough to take out to coffee. He had surely dated stranger people when he felt lonely in the past. But John found that no matter how interesting she was, she wasn't Sherlock Holmes, and suddenly that made all the difference. Loneliness didn't happen like that anymore, he realised.

John was a little surprised at himself. Had someone asked him a year ago whether he'd rather spend time with a pretty nurse or a crazy detective, he'd have laughed. Now, his answer had evidently changed. Perhaps it was the stormy grey-blue eyes that sparkled with childlike joy as Sherlock was telling his story. Or maybe the way he held himself, slender and angled all the way up to his cheekbones. Maybe it was the serene look on his face as he'd slept on John's shoulder.

Perhaps it was that nagging feeling in his head that insisted that Sherlock had been contemplating to kiss him just before the nurse entered. John's cheeks heated even at the thought. Something had definitely changed. Now where the hell did they go from there?

There was another knock on the door, this time a doctor entered, a tall, thin woman with greyish hair, perhaps in her fifties. She exuded a professional competence and John saw Sherlock appraise her before giving an almost imperceptible nod of approval. John let out a breath in relief and smiled. The doctor gave him another once-over and declared herself happy (under the circumstances) with John's current condition. She showed John a certain amount of respect, no doubt having been appraised of his previous bullet wound and how he came by it. She ordered strict rest for at least a week before coming in for another check-up. John assured her that he knew exactly how to behave in his situation, giving a meaningful glance at his friend as he said it. Sherlock most definitely wouldn't behave sensibly if he was recovering from injury, let alone any other time, and they both knew it. The detective merely huffed a laugh.

Finally, after settling everything with John, the doctor turned to Sherlock. She gave him a quick check-up. When he protested, she quickly silenced him with a certain natural authority. John had to force himself not to laugh at Sherlock's indignant frown and the doctor's calm attitude. It wasn't every day you met someone who was impervious to Sherlock Holmes. She was perhaps a little bit more thorough than she needed to be, enjoying her patient's consternation. Finally, with a twinkle in her eye, she declared that he was fit to leave as well. John knew from experience that he could have well been out of here the day before; he imagined someone trying to get Sherlock to leave when he obviously had wanted to stay. _Stubborn git_ , he thought fondly.

Having only treated Sherlock for shock and the after-effects of his ordeal, the doctor ordered more rest as well, at which Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. The doctor smirked. She turned to John and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "My husband is exactly the same. No consideration for his own well-being. Make sure he eats and drinks enough."

 _Ah, here we go again,_ John thought. "I am forever trying," he said with a laugh, feeling the blush return to his cheeks.

The doctor gave John the familiar, commiserating sigh of the long-suffering spouse and wished them both a good day.

It took John a moment to gather his thoughts before he finally looked at Sherlock again. The man had gone quite still and was studying John intently again.

 _I don't care what people think._

John glanced down. Of course he remembered his words from the night he almost died. You don't just tell people something like that and then conveniently forget. From the look on his face, Sherlock hadn't forgotten it either.


	7. Domestics

**One Breath: Domestics**

 **~~ SH ~~**

 **AN: Thank you for your lovely reviews again, I am so happy you like it. I know it's mostly just shameless fluff, but hey, I just love writing the characters :-)**

 **~~ SH ~~**

The next few days at the flat were, decidedly, weird. Sherlock made an effort to make everything comfortable for John; he even made him tea and chucked away the remaining body parts in the fridge. This was much appreciated by his flatmate, who now constantly wore a bemused expression on his face. Sherlock, on the other hand, felt increasingly bothered by the intense scrutiny John was bestowing on him, as if he meant to say something, but then didn't. They hardly spoke, and certainly not about anything important. It was like they were both walking on egg shells. Sherlock was sure that there had never been this much _politeness_ hovering in the air at 221b Baker Street before.

On the third evening, Sherlock felt as if he was going to snap. However, it was John who finally voiced his discomfort. They were sitting on the couch, the remains of a few boxes of Thai scattered on the couch table. Takeaway Sherlock had brought and actually eaten without complaint. John's eyes had nearly bulged from their sockets when he'd tucked in.

Sherlock made to pick up one of the boxes, saying "I'll just take these to the bins," but John's hand suddenly held his forearm in a strong grip. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the doctor and opened his mouth to speak when John burst out, "Just sit down, will you?"

Sherlock sat back and glanced at his friend sideways. He must have done something wrong, because John looked completely exasperated. "Wh—"

"No. Just. No," John quickly interrupted. "Listen. You need to stop... this."

"I thought you liked Thai."

"I do." Another sigh. "But... you're doing all of these things all of a sudden," John began and broke off.

"You like tea. And a clean flat," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, I do, Sherlock, it's just... you don't have to keep doing this. This tip-toeing around me. You don't have to apologize."

"Apologize? Apologize for what?" Sherlock cursed inwardly. John was too perceptive. He must have rubbed off on him.

"For what happened at the pool," John said quietly, looking over at him.

A snappy retort was on Sherlock's lips, but he stopped himself. He looked at John and was met with a shy smile. _Too forgiving. Damn him._

"You could have died," he finally said.

"I didn't. You didn't either. We're fine," John said.

"No, John," he snapped. "We're not _fine._ You're..." _too loyal, too trusting and too bloody nice about it._ "You really shouldn't..." He broke off, glaring at his friend. He felt at a loss how to explain to John how incredibly stupid he was for not understanding.

"You said," John replied after thinking for a moment, "that I shouldn't make people into heroes... but you're not a hero, Sherlock. You're my friend. And friends..." John cut off, leaving the sentence hanging. He seemed unsure of what exactly friends were or did that related to whatever the hell he had done. Sherlock knew the feeling.

"You're the hero, John. You went to war and got shot, and now you're in another kind of war and got shot again. Being a hero will eventually get you killed." His voice had risen in volume a notch and finally he saw John bristle. _Good._

"Sometimes people die for what they believe in," he brought out obstinately, clenching his jaw.

"Well, don't believe in me, John. It's not worth your life."

"Isn't it?" he asked. "And why, pray, is that your decision to make?"

Sherlock stood up and stepped over the coffee table. Couldn't John get mad already? It would make it so much easier. He spun around, his voice raised in anger.

"Stop it, just stop. I can hardly breathe for all the sentiment you spew," Sherlock bit out. _Liar_ , his conscience muttered. "I live recklessly, because that's how I like it," he growled. "And I don't need you, or my brother, or anyone breathing down my neck with all of their _caring_. I can't take responsibility for things that happen, if you..." He broke off again. He couldn't say it.

Worst of all, John was not getting angrier. He looked at him steadily with his cobalt blue eyes, seeing right through him. Sherlock gave another angry snarl, and then dashed into his room. He slammed the door and threw himself on the bed, face forward, and groaned.

 **~~ SH ~~**

John finally let out a breath. He looked after his friend. He'd been expecting this on day one, really. But then Sherlock had gone and done his strange housekeeping routine and thrown John off for a few days. But this was what it was all about. Caring for Sherlock meant having become a target for Moriarty. Sherlock caring for him meant feeling guilty for going to the pool that night. Feeling responsible for John meant chastising his own behaviour. And that was definitely something he never usually did.

John leaned back and sighed again. He wasn't a clever detective, but he knew people. He understood why Sherlock lashed out and wasn't angry with him. Well, perhaps it was better to give him some time to figure it out. John tidied away the dinner cartons and then went up to bed.

When he awoke next morning, he found the flat silent. He washed himself as much as the bandages and injured shoulder allowed, took his medication, ate, watched telly and busied himself with his blog. By midday, he had run out of things to do. He contemplated going for a walk, but he still felt too groggy to move around too much. He leaned his head back on the couch and stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling in his head. He hoped Sherlock would come around soon and not be so damn difficult anymore. He wondered where he was.

His phone started ringing. He beat down his first hopeful impulse – Sherlock never called, he texted. He heaved himself over to the desk and looked at his mobile. Sarah. _Oh. Shit._

He'd gotten two missed calls and a text from her in the past few days, asking him how he was. It looked to John as if she was merely letting him know she was still interested in continuing their tentative dating efforts, but the message hadn't been exactly emotional. He'd formally called in sick at work, but so far had completely forgotten to call her back privately.

He picked up the phone. "Heeey, Sarah," he winced. _Fake cheerfulness, great_ , he chided himself.

"John! Finally! Are you all right?"

"…Yes?" _Uh oh._

He heard a sigh on the other end. "John, a friend of mine works at St. Bart's."

"Oh God," John managed, and flopped down in his chair, running a hand down his face.

"Jesus, so she was right?!"

"Er… About what?"

"She told me about somebody who sounded suspiciously like you being brought in with a bullet wound. I didn't think anything of it until she mentioned the unsociable weirdo holding vigil in your room for two days and nights," she said, sounding exasperated. "She said you barely made it out alive! What the hell happened?!"

John took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Um… do you want to come over for coffee?"

 **~~SH~~**

An hour later, in her lunch break, John and Sarah were sitting by the kitchen table, each with some coffee and biscuits (thanks to Mrs. Hudson). The table was mercifully clean (thanks to Sherlock's burst of madness) and John studied the surface, avoiding Sarah's probing look.

To begin with, he'd told her a rudimentary, edited version of what happened, but then he had quickly descended into contradictions. Finally, he'd decided to tell her the truth instead. When he finished, there was silence. He felt relieved at having told someone. Sometimes the things he saw and did with Sherlock were too weird, and it helped to get an outside, a normal, perspective.

"Wow," Sarah managed after a while. John looked up. "Yeah."

"I mean… Obviously after the whole Chinese Circus thing I knew you were involved in dangerous affairs… but… wow. I had no idea this was such a regular thing with you."

"Believe me, I don't want it to be," he said ruefully.

She studied him for a bit. "Don't you?"

John closed his eyes briefly and winced. "Well… Getting shot wasn't fun."

She gave a small laugh. "But the rest of it?"

He caught her eyes and held her gaze. "It's bloody marvellous, actually."

Now she really laughed. "You're incredible. Both of you. And absolutely insane!"

John gave her a lopsided grin.

"Those horrible people? Crime scenes? Explosions?"

"It's… I know how it sounds, Sarah, but… it's brilliant seeing how he works it all out. And I feel like I can help, at least a little."

Sarah sighed and thought about this for a moment. "John, this… _he_ … may be what you want, but this kind of life, it's… not for me," she said a bit more quietly.

John sighed again. Of course he'd seen this coming. "I know."

"It feels like you're living two lives at once. Nobody can keep that up, you know?" He studied her earnest gaze as she continued. "I think perhaps it would be better if you took a leave of absence for now."

"Huh," John huffed a pained laugh. "Getting dumped and losing my job in the same day? Nice."

"You're not losing it, just… take some time and figure out what you want." Sarah grimaced and quickly sipped her coffee. "Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah, yeah, don't feel bad," he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. "You're right, I think."

They looked into their cups a little more, and finally, she spoke up again. "So are you…? I mean… with him?" She seemed to blush a little. Normally, John would have quickly denied anything and everything, but now it made him think. _I don't mind…_

"I don't know, to be honest," he said. "Maybe there could be something, but with Sherlock, you never know."

Sarah let out a breath, clearly relieved that her question hadn't made things too awkward. She quirked an eyebrow, looking suddenly curious. "So you haven't…"

Now it was John's turn to blush. "Oh! No, nothing happened," he quickly assured her. _Yet._ "It's just… I'm never quite sure where I stand, you know? Until now I hadn't even considered I might, uh, be into…"

"Men?"

"Uh… no, just him," John replied absently. "And I don't think he likes being close to people. We fought about it last night."

"I'm sorry. But… well, I know…" she seemed to struggle but then made up her mind. "Look. This is already a peculiar conversation, so what the hell. You probably don't notice this, but I've seen the way he looks at you."

John quickly looked up. That definitely wasn't a route he'd expected Sarah to take. His ears were getting warmer. "Oh?" he managed, sounding unconvinced.

Sarah smirked at his blatant curiosity. "Yeah." She finished her coffee.

"Are you sure?" John asked.

"Oh yes," she said emphatically, grinning at him now. She stood up, glancing at her watch. "Perhaps you and him should have a little talk. You know, from one crazy person to another. Gotta go, my break's almost over."

John laughed and walked her to the door. "Thank you, Sarah, for being so… honest," he said, and he really meant it.

"You're welcome," she said.

John frowned a little in confusion. "You're being awfully understanding about this, aren't you?"

"Always a doctor, John, you know how it is," she said. "Besides, who am I to stand in the way of, you know…" She made a dramatic swooning gesture, like some kind of Victorian heroine.

"Sarah!"

"Just teasing, John." She leaned forward and pecked him lightly on the cheek. "Let me know how it goes," she winked and left.

 **~~ SH ~~**

A few hours later, John had interrogated himself at length but come nowhere near a solution to how to approach Sherlock on this subject. 'Um, hey, turns out I'm not as straight as I thought' just didn't seem to cut it. Also, that kind of conversation somwhat required them to first work out what the hell had happened last night. John looked at the clock. He still hadn't heard from him. Finally, he pulled out his phone for what seemed like the millionth time today and gave in.

 _ **Are you on a case? Hope you're not still mad about yesterday. JW**_

He looked at the text. It didn't really convey what he needed it to, but for now he left it. He managed to keep away from his phone for about 2 hours before he'd convinced himself that Sherlock couldn't possibly understand what he was saying with just one text.

 _ **I'm sorry I made you angry. I can't help but care. It's in my nature, I'm afraid. JW**_

By the time evening rolled around, John was frantic with worry. No replies to his messages, no note and no information to be gotten from Lestrade. John felt caged in by his injury and inability to move around properly. If he was able to, he'd have been halfway across London by now, looking for his impossible flatmate. As it was, he paced the flat a lot, watched TV and made himself some food, all the while thinking about what Sherlock could possibly be up to.

 _ **It's fine if you're mad. Please just let me know you're okay and not dying, I'm worried. JW**_

It was becoming late now. John stood by the window, watching the street like a hawk for taxis or greatcoats to come swirling around the next corner. Nothing.

By the time midnight rolled around, John was sure something must have happened.

 _ **Okay, really worried now. You're clearly bleeding out on some street corner. Coming to find you. JW**_

He contemplated calling the police, but he knew that wouldn't assuage his worry. He finally put some clothes on and grabbed his gun. The fabric of his shirt strained over his healing wound and he felt a little unsteady on his legs. But he couldn't just sit around any longer.

He had just picked up his jacket and stuffed the gun in the pocket when he heard the door. He froze. Through the open living room door he saw Sherlock's lanky form ascending the stairs, taking two steps at a time. The man looked up from underneath his curly fringe and spotted John. His eyes travelled over him, taking in his state.

"Going out?" The voice was dispassionate, unaffected.

John left his jacket hanging and stood in the doorway. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Out." Sherlock tried to push past him, but John barred the way.

"And since when do you not bother to check your phone?"

A small frown appeared on Sherlock's face. "I was busy," he said, as he pulled out his mobile. John didn't move and watched Sherlock quickly flick through the recent texts. His face remained carefully neutral, but John saw his eyes widen ever so slightly. He apparently really hadn't seen them before now.

John clenched his jaw and felt his heartbeat quicken. He crossed his arms and braced himself for whatever altercation was to come. Sherlock looked up and met his eyes with an unfathomable expression. They stood there frozen for a moment.

"Where were you going to look?" Sherlock finally asked.

John was a little surprised. "I don't know. I think I would have started looking through alleyways, asked the homeless network, that sort of thing…"

"But I could have been anywhere," the detective insisted with a frown.

John felt anger rising, his cheeks flushing. "Yes, I know. But I'd have to start somewhere, wouldn't I?"

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth between John's, as if he was trying to figure out something. "Your chances of finding a specific person in London at this time of night with hardly any clues to go on are infinitesimal. You're recovering from a recent injury and still require rest." He glanced at John's arm, which was still protectively bandaged against his torso. "You had trouble getting dressed and you are still in pain. You are tired but you didn't go to bed." He paused. "You were really worried," he concluded.

 _Okay, that's it._ John turned around and stepped into the flat. He took a deep breath and tried to count to ten, but failed to collect himself. He heard Sherlock come in, close the door and hang up his coat. "No shit," he said. He turned around to face his friend again. "Well done, good deduction! Of course, if you'd just read my messages, you'd have known I was worried _hours ago_! Also, if you'd given any _thought_ to what we've just been through, you could have predicted this reaction before it even happened!" He was fuming now. Sherlock remained where he was, simply looking at him.

"Of course I was worried, you prick! I thought you'd gone off to look for Moriarty, getting yourself kidnapped or killed! I thought you were lying in some warehouse somewhere, bleeding to death! I thought someone had tied you to a bomb or—"

Sherlock quickly stepped forward, interrupting his barrage of shouting. He placed a hand on John's good arm. "John."

Stormy dark blue met pale sea glass.

"Sit down."

John took a deep breath and let Sherlock lead him to the sofa. They sat down, and John winced as he was reminded of the pain in his shoulder. Sherlock made sure he had John's complete attention and held his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed. "I did not think you'd be so concerned. I just needed some space to think and ignored my phone. I didn't mean to worry you. I thought you'd appreciate the solitude."

John gaped at him. Finally, he swallowed against the lump in his throat. He'd hardly ever seen Sherlock so sincere or… awkward. He remembered suddenly how flustered his friend had been at the pool after he'd torn the semtex off of him. He'd been completely thrown off by John's willingness to sacrifice himself. It seems he still hadn't gotten the message.

John nodded. "Thank you."

"You're in pain. You shouldn't have tried to go out," Sherlock said, his voice quiet.

John sighed. "Look, Sherlock…" _Well, it's now or never. Gotta take the leap at some point._ "About what you said last night. This is exactly my point. You're… very important to me, and I'm afraid of something like the pool happening again. And if it does, and I'm there, then I will always—" he swallowed heavily and glared at Sherlock to get his point across. "—always try to jump in front of a bullet, or get myself blown up with the bad guy, or whatever it takes, to get you out. Trust me, nothing you can say, even if you try and make me angry at you, will change my mind on this. All right?"

Sherlock wanted to interrupt him, but John held out a hand. "I'll be angry, but I'll still care. I can't just switch that off." He thought for a moment how much he was willing to say for now. But it was after midnight and they were doing this, so John went ahead. "Even if I could, I wouldn't. You've changed my life so much for the better, and if I get shot for my troubles, I still wouldn't have missed it for the world."

Sherlock blinked rapidly. After staring at John for another minute or so, he finally nodded. "All right. I will say that I still believe that your loyalty is dangerous to your health. However, I know that you thrive under pressure and I think the cases we've been on together have brought out some of your more admirable qualities, so perhaps there is an overall gain to you."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, it's not about _gain_ …!"

He saw Sherlock's cheek twitch with a smile. "I know," he replied softly, fondness lingering in his eyes. The Sherlock way of saying _thank you_.

Sherlock looked away for a moment. "There's probably something you should know," he began. "On the last morning in the hospital, my brother paid us a visit." John's mind went back to the scene in his head and his ears flushed with heat as he remembered the position he'd woken up in. Had Mycroft seen that? _Probably. Oh dear_.

"He informed me that MI6 is now officially involved and looking for Moriarty. There's a lead, apparently, and Mycroft assured me they're making progress."

John blinked in surprise. "And… you're okay with that?"

Sherlock gave him a rueful smile. "I'm sure Moriarty will find a way to continue our game. But for now, I will leave him in my brother's care."

John was stunned, again. He knew how Sherlock loved the challenge. It was quite the concession he was making. "Tell you what," John said, smiling. "You're right, he will be back. If you're telling me that you're not seeking him out or taunting him unnecessarily, that's all I need to know. So thank you." Sherlock looked relieved at that. "But if he does show up again, I'm with you all the way. If you have a plan, let me know. Don't keep me in the dark because you think it'll protect me. That didn't work out last time. I'd rather help."

Sherlock finally smiled. A brilliant, satisfied grin spread over his face, and he nodded. "Sounds good to me," he said.

John let out a slow breath, all his energy seeping from his body. He felt exhausted, in pain, and befuddled by finally saying what he'd been meaning to say. He let himself fall back against the cushions, tiredness engulfing him. There was perhaps one more thing on his mind. "Just out of curiosity," he mumbled tiredly. "If our positions had been reversed… if you'd been the one with the explosives…" he left the question unspoken.

Sherlock leaned back as well. He stretched out his long legs on the table and looked at the ceiling in thought. "Hmm," he mused, and closed his eyes. John could have laughed. If you'd asked anyone else this question, they would have simply made an educated guess or said the polite thing (people were sentimental like that). _Where did that thought come from_ , John pondered idly, as he watched Sherlock playing out the scene at the pool in his mind palace.

John found himself studying the face reclining next to him and thinking back to some of Sarah's words. He'd basically been willing to sacrifice himself for his friend, and you didn't just do that for anyone, did you? In the army, there had been situations of course; but what he'd done there had been a doctor sacrificing things for Queen, country and his fellow soldiers. This time it was just John Watson making a decision. He wondered if Sherlock had guessed the true nature of what he'd told him.

Finally the man opened his eyes again, blinking. He turned his head to face John. "Taking all the variables into account, there is of course a certain amount of speculation included," he stated.

"Of course," John nodded, smiling. He enjoyed the fact that the detective had taken his question so seriously.

"For example, you would not have gone into such a situation without backup or an exit plan, and probably not without consulting me," Sherlock continued.

"True."

"Also there were several possibilities in that moment that would have occurred to me, such as saving ourselves without _showing our hand_ , as it were, but you are impulsive so that naturally didn't occur to you," he mused.

John narrowed his eyes. "Naturally," he said drily and saw Sherlock's mouth twitch again.

"However, under similar circumstances with no other options… I would have done the same."

John's face began to heat up and he blinked. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Seeing his reaction, Sherlock hurriedly added, "I must congratulate you on your excellent reflexes, by the way. I doubt I would have been quick enough to push us into the water in time had our positions been reversed."

John swallowed again and felt a certain lightness invade his belly. This was the closest in days they'd come to actually discussing what had happened. He wondered how far Sherlock had played out the scene in his head.

 _Showing our hand_ , indeed.

"Thank you." He felt calm now, his curiosity satisfied and a feeling of contentment and safety settled in his chest. Sherlock would have done the same. Sherlock perhaps felt the same. Well, that was good enough for now. He felt his eyes close, and the last thing he remembered before falling asleep was his head dropping to a shoulder next to him, and a nose softly nudging his head.


	8. Deductions

**One Breath: Deductions**

 **~~ SH ~~**

 **AN: I love your reviews, thank you so much. Sorry for the slight delay and the short chapter – I have another pressing deadline this week. Thankfully, a lot of the upcoming chapter is already written, it's just a ways to get there. :)**

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock sat quietly for a while, afraid to move. John's head was resting on his shoulder, his friend's familiar weight leaning into him. He turned his head a little and, almost subconsciously, nudged John's head with his nose. He didn't budge. He breathed in and immediately felt his senses filled with John's smell and warmth. Sherlock noticed his heart beat a little faster and a slight panic grabbed hold of him. Were they to stay like this? He remembered the morning at the hospital. Would John look at him the same way as he did then? Or had that just been the residual effects of the painkillers?

Moreover, did he want John to look at him like that again? That look had made Sherlock very aware of certain… indications. He wasn't an idiot, he knew exactly what was happening, he'd just been successfully ignoring it so far. John was suffering from the same effects – pulse quickened, pupils dilated, shortness of breath and a general... whimsical _trembliness._ In addition, Sherlock had deduced that John was embarrassed; either because he was entrapped in an outdated and impractical understanding of sexual orientation (so restrictive, really) or because he felt uncomfortable about being so obviously affected. Sherlock had often noted that people did not like to be seen as obvious, even though they always were.

He sighed. For the first time in quite a while, he felt truly conflicted. He was mentally scoffing at John's awkwardness – so there was a physical attraction, big deal. _Get over it, already, it's becoming irritatingly distracting_. On the other hand, Sherlock knew he was self-indulgent enough to give in to his own whims any moment; shooting the wall because he was bored – kissing John because he felt aroused… what's the difference? But… the wall couldn't just up and leave. What if things became complicated and John would leave? That would be… unacceptable. Sherlock sighed and added ' _co-dependency_ ' to his list of grievances and pressed himself a bit closer into his sleeping friend.

So he would have to reign in his impulses and consider this… situation further before deciding how to proceed. After all, you could suppress physical urges. But was it just the physical that suddenly manifested itself? It certainly felt a bit different.

John shuffled a bit closer and made a rather adorable sleepy sound. Sherlock felt a warm smile grow on his face... and then he froze. Oh dear Lord, this was more than just physical aberrations, wasn't it? _Oh_ , he was in so much trouble.

He wasn't sure how long he remained sitting there, pondering. In the end, he gently lowered John to the cushions and covered him with a blanket. He hesitated for a moment, then lightly ran his fingers over John's head. He allowed himself a soft smile and prodded away towards his bedroom.

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock rarely was honest with anyone about his inner feelings, but if he was honest, he'd have to admit that the week following the little midnight chat was the best week he'd had in a while. There was a minor case to work on that didn't involve deadly weapons and explosives. The mood was pleasant and relaxed at Baker Street; it seemed that things were beginning to get back to normal.

And yet... there were subtle differences now. The false politeness of the first days after the hospital was, thankfully, gone. However, ever since that night, he recognized a certain feeling of contentment and warmth every time he saw John. His flatmate being off work meant he was home all the time, helping with the case. And instead of merely throwing his ideas at him and waiting for praise, Sherlock actually _enjoyed_ the discussion and John's input. Sometimes he was getting almost giddy, which was something he'd never admit outside of a serial murder case.

John's voice drifted in from the kitchen. "So... she didn't take the dog with her that day, so she wouldn't have needed to go to the park, and therefore the timing is off?" It almost felt like a game they were playing. Whenever Sherlock asked John to do his own deductions, he received a brief, incredulous look; but John would usually humour him and gave it a shot.

"Precisely." Sherlock was sitting on his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, watching John putter around with the tea.

"But then her sister said that the dog was gone and she'd assumed Caroline had taken it," John continued to summarise. "So she was lying."

He came back in and handed Sherlock his tea. He placed his own on the little side table and sat in his chair. His brow was furrowed as he worked it out. Sherlock watched him like a hawk. "Yes? And?"

John took a sip of his tea. "But hang on a minute... the dog toys and the bed and everything looked so new! Yet her sister said they'd had the dog for years. Have you considered that..." John looked at Sherlock with dawning understanding. "Oh of course you have. There were two dogs."

"Yes, there were," Sherlock said, his voice low. He was smiling fondly at his friend, who rolled his eyes. Of course he'd come to the conclusion already, but he hadn't said anything. He enjoyed watching John figure it out.

"You figured that out yesterday, didn't you?" John asked.

"Well... yes, but I wanted to hear your opinion on it." John sighed, so Sherlock continued. "I knew you'd pick up on it eventually, and I didn't want to spoil the process of your deductions."

"Oh, and I suppose you weren't just waiting for me to make stupid mistakes so you could point them out?" John laughed, and Sherlock found himself joining in.

"Never would have crossed my mind," he said, and grinned happily at John.

"Right," John grinned back. "Next time you call me an idiot, I'll remind you of that!"

"Of course. Well, shall we put the old lady's mind at ease?" He whipped out his phone to call their client. Out of the corner of his eyes, he kept seeing John smiling at him. Yes, this week was definitely as close to perfect as it could be.

A few days after the case of the two dogs, John had to go back to hospital to get his wound seen to. When John returned with a less cumbersome sling, they celebrated by ordering food and inviting Mrs. Hudson to join them. She kept giving Sherlock dangerously meaningful glares whenever John wasn't looking, and just grinned whenever Sherlock glared back. After watching a crappy movie with them, their landlady thanked them and wished them a good night.

The TV was still on, but John had turned the sound off as the next film began. He was picking at the remainder of their snacks and offered some to Sherlock, who began absently munching on a prawn cracker. He'd had another acceptable day, he mused, but something was off. Something had been bothering him all day and he couldn't quite figure it... _ah_.

"Tomorrow is Tuesday," he said.

John glanced over at him. "As far as I know," he said.

"You work in the clinic on Tuesdays."

John let out a laugh. "Not tomorrow I'm not."

"How long are you on sick leave?"

John shifted sideways a little to look at him properly. "Oh, that's right... I forgot to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"I am not going to be in the clinic for a while. I am... on an extended leave of absence, so to speak." John looked a little worried. "I'm sure I'll find a way to cover the rent, I've saved some money—" he began, before Sherlock brushed it away with a wave.

"Never mind the rent," he interrupted. "You took a leave of absence?"

"Well..." John looked at his hands. "More like, I was given one."

"Oh?" Sherlock tried to keep his voice unconcerned. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't paying very close attention. This was a new development. Interesting.

"Yeah, I, um, saw Sarah the other day. She came over when you were off, thinking."

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't quite sure what John's exact relationship with the woman was, and he hadn't made a point in finding out; from his estimate of their respective personalities, he knew it couldn't last long.

"She personally came over to fire you?"

John winced and then laughed a little. He nervously rubbed his hand down his neck. Sherlock frowned. What was so awkward about losing your job? When John didn't immediately reply, he tried a different strategy. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, John, it's just a job. If it makes you feel any better, I value your medical opinion when I'm working on a case."

"Uh, thank you," John mumbled. "That's… good to know, I guess?" He sighed. "Actually, Sarah found out about me getting shot and I completely forgot to call her. So she heard it from a friend, a nurse at St. Bart's. She was worried and… well it had completely slipped my mind. She came over to see how I was, and took the opportunity to sack me and dump me at the same time." John had spoken quickly and closed his eyes, looking embarrassed.

Sherlock processed the news. "She sacked you because you didn't inform her of your… condition?"

John chuckled and then cleared his throat. "Uh, well, not that we were really… I mean, we were barely dating," he explained. "But I believe I was _dumped_ for not being a very considerate boyfriend and not informing her when I was, uh, shot." Before Sherlock could reply, he quickly continued, "I was _sacked_ because I wasn't a very reliable employee."

"You're not? Reliable, I mean? I always thought you were one of the most reliable people I knew," Sherlock mused. John seemed a little taken aback at this confession. "Scratch that," Sherlock amended. "You're the only reliable person I know." He grabbed another prawn cracker.

"That's probably because I rush off every time you text me with a case or an emergency," John admitted sheepishly. "Even when I'm on a date."

Sherlock nodded. "I see." Several thoughts presented themselves to him now, one of which he sought to confirm. "So… did Sarah inform you beforehand that a relationship with her was tied to her knowledge of any shootings you may be involved in?"

There was a beat. Next thing, all of a sudden, John broke out into a fit of laughter. He fell back against the cushions, snorting, a hand held in front of his face. Sherlock merely glared at him. He got the feeling it was something he said.

"Oh my God, Sherlock," John wiped away a tear. "You know what? She didn't. She never bloody mentioned anything of the kind." Another bout of laughter overtook him. Sherlock felt not amused. There was something he was missing, surely. Relationships were weird.

John quickly stopped himself when he glanced over. He sobered a little when he saw Sherlock's sour expression. "What?" he said.

"Nothing," Sherlock pouted.

John's eyes widened with understanding. "You… you were being serious."

"Well, if you're incapable of having a normal conversation like grown-ups, please, indulge in your childish fits whenever you like." Sherlock grabbed another prawn cracker and crunched on it sullenly, staring at the silent telly.

"I'm sorry, it was just the way you said it…" John began, grinning, and then sighed. He turned to face Sherlock again. "Okay. I'm sorry. I'll try and explain. Here it goes." He waited for Sherlock to look over. The detective noticed that John wore a more serious expression now. _Very well_ , he would listen.

John spoke slowly now. "Sarah heard from her friend that someone who sounded a lot like me – being watched over by someone who sounded a lot like you – was in hospital, after barely surviving being shot. She was worried about me. I'd called in sick at work but of course I hadn't actually informed them what happened. She'd tried to call me twice and sent a text and I still hadn't replied, so she was shocked to find out it had actually been me in the hospital. She must have thought her friend was mistaken." John took a deep breath. "I think the implication is that if I'd been serious about her, I would have called her at once. Therefore that influenced her decision to stop dating."

Sherlock could read in John's face that there was another angle to the story that he wasn't telling. He decided to leave it for now. He'd noticed his face grow a little warmer at the words _watched over_ ; he supposed that was an accurate description. It raised another question. He frowned. "Only two missed calls and one text after what she must have realised were the two of us in hospital together… she can't have been very serious either, John."

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise and he huffed a little laugh. "No?"

"No. I would…" he stopped himself, quickly glancing at John's eyes. _I would have sent you 28 bloody texts and then terrorised the whole bloody hospital until they'd let me see you_ , he added mentally. "You don't seem too beaten up about it," he observed instead.

John's eyes narrowed a little and scanned his face. Sherlock tried to keep a calm demeanour. It really wouldn't do to say these kinds of things to John. The man would think him an imbecile, a sentimental fool. Which he was perhaps a little, at the moment, but there was no need to dwell on it.

"No, I'm not. To be honest, I'm a little relieved," John admitted.

"The other day, I was merely gone for a few hours, _uninjured_ mind you, and you sent me four texts demanding to know where I was," Sherlock mumbled before he could stop himself.

John gaped at the non-sequitur. "Uh… well, yes, like I said: I was worried."

"I rest my case," Sherlock said, shoving another prawn cracker in his mouth. He noted with a triumphant smirk that John looked distinctly flustered. He decided he was quite partial to that particular look on his doctor.


	9. Drinks

**One Breath: Drinks**

 **~~ SH ~~**

 **AN: As promised, the longest chapter yet :-) Not sure if I am going a little over board with this One Shot – what do you think?**

 **~~ SH ~~**

John was, for lack of a better expression, walking on a cloud. Being home with Sherlock without a job or a case would, not too long ago, have been his definition of a nightmare. Now, either Sherlock was still making an effort to be nice because of his injury, or he was on some drug John wasn't aware of. It wasn't the occasional cup of tea or the comfortable afternoons reading; it was the talking that surprised John. He'd never talked so much to his friend, at least not about non-case-related things.

Sherlock talked a little about his family, mostly regaling John with horrible childhood stories about Mycroft. He told him about old cases. He asked about John's experiences in the army. He asked him about interesting medical stories. One night, over glasses of Scotch, they discussed the psychology of crime, which ended in a heated argument.

Afterwards, John felt surprisingly invigorated rather than angry. He recognized once again what a strange and curious intellect Sherlock possessed, and wrestling a topic with him was different from talking to anyone else. There was no holding back for politeness, no regard of societal expectations about what one should or should not say or think; it was just a really bloody interesting debate. He felt elated that his friend – whilst of course maintaining that John was an idiot – considered him interesting enough to talk to like this. And he couldn't help but notice that Sherlock had been enjoying himself thoroughly as well.

Every night, John tried to figure out whether or not he was hopelessly smitten with his gorgeous flatmate and what that meant for him. Every night he came to a similar conclusion: Yes, he was smitten; yes, this was Sherlock Holmes he was thinking of, which meant he was completely bloody insane; no, he had absolutely no idea how to approach the issue. But thankfully, one night an opportunity presented itself.

It was one of those comfortable silent evenings. They were just on the couch together, reading. Sherlock spent most of the time sprawled half on top of John or leaned against him, mumbling that he couldn't help it with being so tall. John conveniently did not point out his empty chair to him, because he didn't want him to leave. He guessed that somehow Sherlock didn't want to leave either. In fact, John found Sherlock's presence so distracting that he ended up not reading a single word of the book in his hands. All in all, a very happy evening indeed.

John had finally torn himself away from pondering Sherlock's hair or the sounds he made, all the while enjoying a pleasant tugging in his chest. He'd decided to have an early night and was on the stairs to his bedroom when the detective's phone went off.

"JOHN! A CASE!"

Sherlock's voice boomed through 221B Baker Street, making John hope that Mrs. Hudson was still up. If she hadn't been before, she would be now.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" John yawned. He was finally without a sling and off the painkillers and antibiotics for his rapidly healing wound but still felt tired a lot.

Sherlock spun and kneeled on the couch, his blue dressing gown twisting around his body. He read out the text. " _Urgent. Double suicide, no trace of weapon, strange circumstances. Come at once._ "

John came back into the room and eyed Sherlock, who looked like a kid on Christmas morning. They hadn't had a real, grizzly case in a while. He grinned. "Well, I suppose I can always sleep afterwards," he said indulgently, to which Sherlock bounded off the couch and quickly over to John. In his enthusiasm, he grasped his friend's arms. John thought for a second he'd go in for a hug, but Sherlock seemed a little startled by his own reaction and let go quickly. He darted into his bedroom to change, and John shook his head, smiling.

Ten minutes later, they were in a cab, headed towards an address that seemed familiar to John. He was wrecking his brain trying to figure out why he knew where the crime scene was.

As they arrived and stepped out of the taxi, it hit him. He slapped a hand in front of his mouth, checked his phone, then looked at Sherlock. A small grin spread on his face.

"What?" The detective looked over suspiciously.

"We're here, Sherlock."

"Are you sure? There's no police cars or…" he trailed off as his eyes travelled to the building and the quaint bay windows on its front. A sign above the door read "The King's Head", and Lestrade was waving at them through the window.

"A PUB?" Sherlock exclaimed, affronted. "I'm not going in there, there's people in there!" He turned on the spot and moved to hail another taxi, but John had anticipated this and deftly stepped in his way. He found himself with an armful of Sherlock. The detective tried to extricate himself, but John was quicker.

"Oh no you don't," he laughed. He used an old army move to pin Sherlock's arms to his body and blocked his leg, effectively immobilizing the taller man on the spot. Sherlock's back was pressed against John's chest, he was trapped.

"John, what are you doing," Sherlock huffed.

John kept his hold on him. "Now before you run, you listen to me, all right? It's Greg's birthday today, I just remembered when I saw the pub. He's my friend, so I'm going to have a drink with him. He was your friend long before I even knew him, therefore I think you should definitely have a drink with him."

"Jooohn," Sherlock whined and squirmed in his arms. John felt a now familiar warmth spread through him as he registered their proximity. He decided to take a chance for once and lowered his voice.

"Remember after the pool?" He felt Sherlock become still. _So that got his atttention then._

"I was pretty out of it at the end, but I distinctly remember _somebody_ promising to buy me 'all the drinks'?"

Sherlock pulled away a little to turn and look at him. John released his iron grip, keeping his arms around his lanky friend. "Are you sure _that somebody_ did not specify 'unless you are in the company of other people'?"

John fought to suppress a grin. "No, I don't think so," he said as earnestly as he managed.

One of Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Sure? You were bleeding to death at the time."

"Positive."

Sherlock released a suffering sigh, but a smile ghosted over his lips and a twinkle was in his eye. Suddenly, John felt a bit silly and dropped his arms.

Sherlock stepped past John, towards the Pub. "Well, we better get in then, before Lestrade sprains his thumb snapping compromising photos."

John groaned all the way to the door, following his smirking friend.

Inside, Sherlock made straight for the bar. Lestrade welcomed John with a grin. "Nice tackle, Captain," he said.

"Piss off," John growled. "Happy Birthday."

Lestrade laughed and held up his phone. "Don't worry, these are gift enough for me. Come on, first round's on me."

They wove their way to the bar where they found Sherlock studying the barkeep intently. He was just about to open his mouth when John stepped up next to him, slapping him on the shoulder unnecessarily hard. "What are you having? Scotland Yard is buying."

Sherlock winced. "You are in quite a violent temper tonight, John."

"Yes, well, I just had a feeling you were about to deduce his 3 mistresses and 15 illegitimate children and get us thrown out before we even had a toast."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. He only has one mistress, and she can't have any—"

"Good to know," John interrupted quickly, glancing at the burly guy behind the bar. "Beer?"

Greg laughed at their antics and ordered drinks. "It's good to see you both, thanks for coming," he winked.

Sherlock glared at him. "As deceptions go, it wasn't very creative."

"You still fell for it, though," the DI said. "So that means I actually got you for once! Cheers to that!" A satisfied grin spread on Greg's face and John felt himself joining in.

They made their way over to a small empty table. In this corner of the pub, some 20 odd members of NSY were assembled around tables and on benches; John scanned the crowd and was relieved to see that Anderson and Sally were both busy chatting and holding pints, ignoring the newcomers for once.

Despite his protests, Sherlock soon seemed quite at ease. They didn't go mingle with the others and nobody came to talk to them; most of the police force thought Sherlock – and by extension, the guy living with him – was a weirdo. John was perfectly happy with this arrangement, and Sherlock was currently refraining from insulting people, so all was good for now.

~~ SH ~~

Lestrade ended up sitting with them much more than he did with his squads. After another pint or so, John called him out on it, pointing out that if he sat there any longer, he'd join the "weirdo" club.

The DI grinned. "Oh, that's fine. I spend enough time with that lot every day." He leaned in a bit and lowered his voice. "Can't stand some of them personally, to be honest, but they're a good team." He nodded at John. "Besides, it's good to hang out with you two outside of a crime scene, for once. That skews your perspective."

"True," John smirked. "Especially with him being… well, _himself_ , on a case." He gestured to Sherlock, who was currently at the bar for the next round.

Greg huffed. "Yeah, can't imagine many people know him _off_ a case. You might be the only one."

"What about you? You've known him far longer."

"Well… yes, but… different times, different Sherlock," he assented vaguely. John knew little about his friend's time as an addict, but he knew enough to understand. He merely nodded.

Lestrade was still studying him intently and sighed.

"Something on your mind?" John glanced up.

Greg laughed. "You're a marvel, Doctor," he brought out and took another sip of his beer.

John's eyebrows rose. "Are you drunk?"

"Not yet. But you know something? This lot, they call him a freak." He gestured to the officers. "I discourage it, but you know how it is. And when you showed up, everyone was slagging you off for being so… naïve. So guileless, to just go and live with someone crazy like Sherlock Holmes. Some people thought it was Stockholm Syndrome,"—John snorted a laugh at that one. "Others assumed you'd be gone within the month; someone bet you'd become a mysterious murder victim one day," Greg went on.

"Sergeant Donovan," John muttered darkly.

Lestrade waved that interruption away and leaned over the table, catching John's attention as if he was telling John the secret solution to a case. "But you see, they don't get it. They just think about you, and how crazy you are. But he's got to live with you, too!"

"Oh, thanks," John scoffed sarcastically.

Lestrade ignored that, too. "I don't know how you do it. He barely can stand being in the same room with other people because he thinks they're idiots."

"He thinks I'm an idiot, too," John pointed out, draining his beer.

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head at John. After a long moment, he grabbed his drink again. "Sometimes I think he's right."

John scowled at him as Sherlock returned with a new round.

A little later, as Sherlock discussed crimes with Lestrade, John found himself musing on the things the DI had said. He was right of course. This had occurred to John before, whenever somebody insinuated that he was somehow being taken advantage off. He got angry then, and usually shouted at people who made uninformed judgements on him and his friend. Sherlock didn't care, of course, and told John not to defend him. But, especially now, John knew he'd always defend him, even if it was useless.

Conversations and scenes buzzed through his mind as he sat there, studying Sherlock. The man who, a few hours ago, had been completely comfortable lying in his lap, being a thorough distraction to John. The man who shared his flat, his tea, his thoughts. The 'unsociable weirdo holding vigil' at his hospital bed for two nights. The man he'd dragged unconscious from the pool. The man whose breath he'd shared to stay safe for just a few minutes longer.

He felt a painful stab of longing in his chest. Sherlock chose that moment to look over. He glanced over John's face casually, but when their eyes met, he stopped. For a breathless second, John was captivated by what he saw, even though he was hard-pressed to put a name to it. Whatever it was, it was intense and possessive and…

John finally shook himself and broke the stare. He'd thought he could somehow use the excuse of alcohol and a relaxed atmosphere to finally broach the subject of their mutual (or not mutual) feelings. If Sherlock even had them or considered them important enough to warrant attention. Perhaps tonight would be a good opportunity to finally find out.

What would happen if Sherlock scoffed at him for even thinking it? For believing for one second that Sherlock would give in to something he considered a defect of his transport's chemical makeup? What would happen if Sherlock had changed his mind about transport and decided to give in, after all? The problem here was that John was quite an imaginative man, and both options presented themselves plausibly to his mind.

The thought of certain images involving a certain pair of lips, surrounded by pale skin and soft dark curls under his hands made his face flush and he quickly got up. He grabbed their empty glasses and offered to get another round, feeling Sherlock's knowing smirk on his back all the way to the bar. _God, you coward, Watson. Idiot. Moron. Pull yourself together._

John returned their empty glasses and ordered three fresh pints. He realized that he couldn't just keep buying drinks whenever he began feeling awkward or they'd be crawling home. As he was waiting to be served, he noticed two pretty girls standing next to him, having a hushed conversation. They were scantily dressed and cast their eyes over the patrons, clearly on the prowl. Suddenly, he caught snatches of their giggling tête-à-tête.

"Ooh, what about that one?"

"The lanky one in the purple shirt? _Ohh._ Yes, please," her friend replied huskily. It sounded like somebody licking their lips before a delicious meal.

"Looks a bit arrogant, though," the other remarked. "Not that that would stop me!" Her friend descended into another fit of giggles at that.

John glanced around and saw them shoot longing looks across the pub to their table. He sighed. Sherlock was explaining something to Greg, who currently looked torn between amusement and bewilderment. His friend's expression was aloof and he was clearly enjoying himself. Suddenly, he looked up and caught John's eyes. A small smile formed on his lips before he looked back at Lestrade.

The girls behind John squealed in delight. " _Did you see that?_ "

"I can't believe he smiled at us," the brunette giggled. "We should _absolutely_ go over there."

" _Absolutely not_! I'm not nearly drunk enough to face someone who looks like _that_ ," her friend insisted and took another draught of her cocktail.

"I am," the braver one of the two replied cockily and adjusted her top a little to reveal more cleavage. John felt this was the time to intervene and save them from what could only end in disaster.

He turned around and stepped over to them. "Uh, actually, that one's spoken for," he said, glancing up to catch her eyes. The girl was surprised and eyed him up and down.

"He is?" she said, looking deflated, but then her eyes narrowed. "How do you know?" She sounded indignant, the alcohol making her rather blunt.

"He's here with me," John stated steadily with a small smile playing around his lips. Huh. It actually felt pretty good saying that. More than good.

At this declaration, the blonde threaded her arm through her friend's from behind and hung onto her. "Aaaaaaaaaaw," she squeaked and gave John a look as if he was some kind of adorable furry animal. " _That_ is SO sweet!" This revelation apparently affected her so much she barely managed to stay upright.

Her brunette friend steadied her, but she was not giving up yet. She raked her eyes over John once again. Apparently, she liked what she saw. A suggestive smirk settled on her lips. "Well… I don't suppose you two would be up for—"

"OH LOOK! Here are my drinks, gotta run, BYE," John said quickly. He paid for the drinks and fled, leaving them behind in another fit of giggles.

He wound his way through the pub back to their corner and balanced the pints on the table. Lestrade picked up his. "Cheers, mate," he nodded and had a drink.

Sherlock didn't touch his glass yet. He wore a rather amused expression and stared at John, his eyes twinkling dangerously. "Having fun?"

"I just saved you from their advances, actually."

"Is that right?" Sherlock's smirk was entering shark-infested waters.

"To be honest, I also wanted to save _them_ the embarrassment."

"What did you say to them?" Sherlock's eyebrow quirked upwards and for once, he looked actually curious. It was simply too tempting.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he teased. Sherlock's eyebrows rose even further and he looked pleasantly amused.

John grinned and took a sip of his beer. Then he glanced up again and shrugged non-committedly. "Although, she did proposition us for a foursome, so if you…"

His words were cut off by Lestrade sputtering and coughing as he choked violently on his drink.

Sherlock broke into a wide grin and raised his glass. "Touché, Doctor," he toasted, and they both laughed.

 **~~ SH ~~**

It was late, and John was getting drunk. Neither he, nor Lestrade, nor Sherlock, surprisingly, were pushovers; but Greg had apparently made it his mission to get everyone absolutely hammered tonight.

John had made a quick trip to the restrooms, and when he came back, he immediately ran into Sherlock. The detective was pressed up against the wall on the corner of the small corridor, clandestinely peering back to the main pub. He was sans his jacket, the top button of his shirt undone. For someone who was far beyond just being tipsy, he looked graceful as ever – at least if the situation hadn't looked so ridiculous in the first place.

"Spying on someone?" John sidled up to him, grinning.

"OH! John, it's you. Good." He spun around and grabbed John's shoulder. He gave him a conspiratorial wink. "You can help."

"What are you up to, then? Still deducing people's dates?" Earlier, Lestrade had dared him how fast he could either get a couple to break off their date or how fast he could get two people to immediately make out. Sherlock was still looking for targets, apparently.

Sherlock leaned in closer, close enough that John could feel the warmth radiating off him. "Look who it is," he smirked.

John leaned past his friend and looked around the corner. So much for couples. Directly in his line of sight sat Anderson, chatting with a female colleague.

Sherlock's voice was suddenly close to John's ear. "His drink. It's going to be hilarious."

John's muddled brain (which suggested that this was not appropriate at all) fought for dominance over the rest of his body (which suggested that no man had the right to sound so sexy when drunk). He wasn't sure yet who'd won.

"What are you planning?" John found his own voice sounded a tad too curious and entertained by this. Not good.

"Harmless stuff. Barkeep actually sells it. Naughty man," Sherlock added with a devilish smirk.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock you can't just –mmph!" John's outburst was quickly silenced by a hand against his mouth. Sherlock dragged John a step back into the hallway. John wasn't sure how exactly, but he found himself pressed against a wall by Sherlock, who was smirking at him with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Shh. He'll hear us! Besides, it's already done. Just sit back and watch."

"Hmpfsh 'oin to—" John tried to press out, glaring daggers.

"You are no fun," Sherlock stated with an eye roll.

"Yephf, I am!" John managed.

Sherlock removed his hand and their eyes locked. John had rarely seen him look so open and unguarded. He smiled in return and just enjoyed the moment. Leaned against the wall, he looked up at Sherlock standing close to him, and for the first time, he let go of whatever fear he'd had about this. This was just them, nothing more, nothing less. He was hopelessly falling for someone he considered to be his best friend and the most interesting person he'd ever met. What was so terrible about that? He vaguely registered that his lowered inhibitions were making him careless and stupid; for the first time, he truly admitted to himself that he wanted this. It was probably painted all over his face. And here he was, eye to eye with the most perceptive person on the planet.

Sherlock looked, for lack of a better word, captivated by the whatever he saw. Two sea grey eyes roamed dark blue ones, and a quiet little smile stole onto that face that was usually so closed off.

Sherlock let out a little laugh as he considered John. "Yes. You are. _Always_." He said it with such conviction that John's heart beat faster still.

"Come on; let's time how long it takes for Anderson to make a pass at her."

John giggled as Sherlock actually pulled out his phone to use as a stop watch. They both stuck close to the wall, leaning around in intervals, commenting in murmurs as if on a sports match. John felt like he was ten years old again.

"Ooh, she's leaning over the table, I think he said something funny," John whispered.

"Impossible."

"Well, funny to ordinary people."

"Not even possible then. She must be missing her brain."

"Well, she is with Scotland Yard," John mused.

Sherlock snorted a laugh and had to hide behind the wall. John allowed himself a smug little smile.

"Oh, he's doing it again," John remarked as Anderson leaned forward with a suggestive look in his eyes.

Sherlock leaned over again, pressing his shoulder into John to see. "His signature move: a self-deprecating forensics joke that is really only covert bragging. Used it on three sergeants already, I heard one commenting on it at a crime scene once," Sherlock hissed with utter disdain.

"Well, she doesn't seem to have heard it before," John remarked, seeing how the blonde sergeant giggled.

Sherlock shook his head and leaned back again. "Sometimes I despair at the crude coupling methods of the human race."

John smirked at him. "Well, we can't all be beyond such things; otherwise the human race would have died out a long time ago."

Sherlock scoffed. "As usual, John, you see but you do not observe."

John looked at him in surprise. "What did I miss this time?"

Sherlock tried to look more unconcerned than ever, but a faint blush on his cheekbones betrayed him. "There is a distinctly wide field of possibilities between this embarrassing display of stupidity—" he gestured vaguely towards Anderson – "and, you know, race-extinguishing celibacy." He pointedly ignored John and looked around the corner again.

Just when John was about to take a deep dive into uncharted waters and ask exactly what kind of _possibilities_ were on his friend's mind, Anderson finally succumbed to whatever Sherlock had drugged him with.

It was like watching a train wreck. John wasn't sure whether to be amused or horrified. He couldn't look away.

"Eight point four minutes," Sherlock stated, putting his phone away with a satisfied smile.

"You know, if you keep doing things like this to prank people, it's no wonder they dislike you or call you names," he pointed out quietly whilst watching the spectacle.

"Oh, chicken and egg, John. Which came first?" He smiled lazily. "Besides, I don't care what people think of me."

"Yes, you do," John admonished.

"Well, not many people." His eyes sparkled.

 **~~ SH ~~**

Soon after, Anderson had been dragged out of the pub by two colleagues. He'd gotten a nice slap for his trouble from the blonde sergeant and John thought he'd seen somebody take a video. He felt a little bit guilty, simply because he usually didn't stoop so low. But somewhere, in a quietly jealous and possessive space inside him, he thought it suited the git just right.

Half of the force had left by now, including a somewhat embarrassed and annoyed looking Sally; Lestrade was still sitting with them. He hadn't forgotten the bet about the couples he'd made earlier and now that the Anderson debacle was over, he brought it up again. However, John was in on it this time, and he imposed an additional rule.

"Sherlock, I know you're not drunk enough to really listen, but I'm gonna try anyway. A'right?"

"Do go on, doctor." God, it was entirely unfair how he could sound so coherent whilst being clearly inebriated. John could tell from his eyes. They were bright and shining and too perceptive as always but _honest_.

"Okay. I know you could break up half the people in this room. But… just tonight. Don't?"

Something softened in Sherlock's eyes. His mouth twitched. "Some of them will break it off within the month. Some of them will not go home together anyway. Some will, only to find it was a mistake in the morning; is it so terrible to hasten these things?"

"Some things have to happen like that," John said seriously. Lestrade nodded and raised his hands. "Okay, okay, tha's right. I was a bit mean earlier. Sometimes you gotta make these mistakes – otherwise you never learn from them." John and he shared a look that spoke of past experiences, with Sherlock narrowing his eyes at them suspiciously.

"All right, I can see I am outnumbered," he finally conceded. "However, you said nothing about hastening any positive developments I may have observed."

John frowned. "This could go so, _so_ wrong, and you know it."

"Don't you trust me?" Sherlock's voice lowered seductively. "I promise I'll be nice."

Without waiting for an answer, he gracefully swept from his chair and began walking around the pub, looking for a likely target. He deposited himself by the bar, watching a young man and woman sitting at a bay window table. Even from where he sat, John could tell they both looked incredibly shy.

Lestrade laughed and nodded at John. "You know, it's even more fun watching you two here than it is at crime scenes."

"You have fun at crime scenes?"

"He does, doesn't he?"

"Yeah but he's…"

Lestrade laughed. "Yeah, he is." He waited for a moment, his pint in hand. He leaned his elbows on the table and studied John intensely. "You know... I've known the man for 5 years and I haven't a clue. You move in for a few months and suddenly…" he gestured wildly.

John didn't know what to say to that.

"You asked _him_ to be _nice_ , and _he just went with it_ ," Lestrade stated slowly, like he'd just found that magic was real and _please_ couldn't John tell him the secret?

When John (furiously trying to think of something else and failing) still didn't look up, Greg poked him in the shoulder to emphasize his point. "You're good for him."

Before he could catch himself, John muttered, "he's good for me." Lestrade's grin widened and he wiggled his eyebrows. "Told you. You are an idiot." He leaned in even closer for a moment. "Cause earlier, when you were spying on Anderson, it sure as hell looked like he was about to—"

"YES, ANYWAY," John interrupted quickly and blushed, when he found nothing to follow up on it.

Lestrade mercifully shut up and merely shrugged non-committedly. "Okay, fine; but let me know if anything happens, all right? Got money in the betting pool. You guys owe me that." He drained his beer.

"Betting Pool?!"

"Oh, don't act surprised," Greg scoffed. "It's the least we can do after all the grief he gives everyone."

John rolled his eyes and decided to ignore this revelation for now. He looked over to the bar and saw Sherlock making his move. "Oh God please don't upset them," he whispered. Greg laughed.

They heard scraps of what Sherlock said, and saw the astonished gasps of the not-yet-couple. Sherlock leaned down a little and neatly pointed out certain tells of both of them, deducing that they'd both been considering holding hands, but for some stupid reason, weren't currently doing that. Additionally, Sherlock made several remarks about their similar tastes and opinions in life and how they would work quite well together. Finally, he noted how the man had been admiring the woman's long, auburn hair all night and questioned why he hadn't told her yet; and how the woman really liked his scent, the way she kept leaning toward him, and suggested they move their chairs closer together for ease of exploring those notions.

He gave them a little bow, wished them happiness, and glided away like a dark, mysterious Cupid.

John and Greg watched Sherlock, slack-jawed and silent, until he was sitting back at their table. Finally, John glanced over to the couple. They seemed to have shuffled a bit closer and were now indeed holding hands and making googly eyes at each other.

"Sherlock. That was… exceptional."

"Impressive, even for you," Greg managed.

Sherlock gave them a blasé shrug. "Happy Birthday," he said, and emptied his glass.

Greg merely stared at him, but John finally cracked and was lost in a fit of laughter.


	10. Experiment

**~~ One Breath** **10: Experiment ~~**

 _I want to share your mouthful_

 _I want to do all the things your lungs do so well_

 _I want to be every lever you pull_

 _And all showers that shower you_

 _I'm gonna kiss you_

 _Like the sun grounds you_

 **Alt-J "Every Other Freckle"**

 **~~ SH ~~**

 _AN: Sounds cheesy, but this song came on shuffle as I was writing the other day and I realised how well it fit ;) Thanks to my lovely readers, especially Brown Eyed Girl, for the continued support! Also:_ _ **FINALLY**_ _this chapter. I've been dying to write it and had bits of it ready since the beginning :-D_

 **~~ SH ~~**

" _Another_ beer? Where's your sense of adventure?" Sherlock admonished John.

John raised an eyebrow. "You do know I live with _you_ , right?"

"True." Sherlock grinned. "Come on; let's test the creativity of the barkeep."

It was later than late now. Of the NSY group, only a lightly snoring Lestrade remained leaning back against the wall in their corner. Sherlock was silently pleased to finally have his blogger to himself again. Whilst it had been a surprisingly entertaining evening, he itched to be alone again. Alone at Baker Street. With John. Somehow, he didn't count as 'other people' any more.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the grubby, laminated menu they found on the counter. Suddenly, a small smile spread on his lips. He turned to the barkeep. "Two 'Breaths of Life'," he ordered.

"Wait, what did you just order?" John scanned the menu to look for it and finally found the cocktail – and its ingredient list, comprised only of strong liquors. "Blimey," he muttered, looking a bit worried.

Sherlock leaned on the bar, closer to his friend. "Just returning a favour," he said. "It seems appropriate."

John's eyes widened in understanding at the name. "Oh."

Sherlock watched him struggle. It had been one of his major sources of entertainment that evening. He could tell John wanted to say something, but every time he looked up at Sherlock, he seemed to choke. The detective wondered what it would take to get John Watson to make up his mind.

To Sherlock, things had become somewhat muddled in their own way. John was still a mystery to him; like he was his blind spot – easy to read, but not when it came to those odd feelings. Earlier, in the corridor, John had _looked at him_. Nobody ever looked at him like that.

Their drinks arrived and John looked at his with suspicion. "That lemon is only an excuse to call it a cocktail, isn't it?"

Sherlock grinned and raised his glass.

"To John Watson. You saved my life."

John froze and he looked up at Sherlock. He subconsciously licked his lips, which Sherlock found more than a bit distracting. Finally, he smiled and raised his glass as well. "To Sherlock Holmes. You saved mine."

Sherlock smiled back, regarding his friend. He took a deep breath. Whatever happened, they'd be fine.

They both sipped their drinks and were immediately pulled out of the reverie. Sherlock's eyes watered as the burning, bitter cocktail travelled down his throat, leaving behind a burning sensation.

"Jesus. You are trying to hospitalize me again, aren't you?" John sputtered.

"Never." Sherlock coughed. "Pretty violent for just a 'breath'", he gasped, laughing.

"This from the man who thinks 'breathing is boring'." John grinned.

"Yeah well," Sherlock pulled a face. "I may have changed my mind on that." He glanced down at John and once again smiled that private smile that he reserved just for him. It wouldn't do to smile at anyone else like that (not that he ever had reason to); they would just think he was high or something. But John knew him and he understood.

"Oh? Why's that?" John smirked through a definite blur of drunkenness.

Sherlock just smiled for an answer. He was enjoying this… flirtatious banter more than he should. More than he thought he would. He felt the weight of that shelf of unanswered questions resting uncomfortably on his shoulders. He had been meaning to deal with all of it, but instead, he chose the blissful route of just going with whatever felt all right at the time. He felt himself drifting closer, and John did not seem to mind.

John took another sip of his cocktail and his face wrinkled in distaste. "No offense, Sherlock, but this… is vile."

Sherlock laughed, and saw John's eyes crinkle with mirth. He picked up his drink. "What are you talking about?" He tried to look exasperated and it made John laugh. He took a gulp of his drink, knowing it was probably a mistake. "This is fantast—oh GOD it's revolting!" He coughed and slammed the glass back down, his body shaking with disgust. John was laughing even harder and he thought he saw his eyes water.

"Y-you look like a cat that got—got stuck in the rain!" John gasped between fits of laughter.

"I do not!" Sherlock pulled himself up, indignant, but for some reason, John laughed even more at that.

"No, r-really, though," he snorted. "When you're on the couch or just prancing around the flat, you're like a, a big cat," John couldn't stop giggling, and Sherlock felt himself grinning despite himself. John laughing had suddenly become his favourite sound in the world.

"I don't prance—" Sherlock interrupted, but it was no use.

"Your face—"

"What's wrong with my face?!" He felt a happiness bubbling up inside him and he was unable to reign it in.

"Especially when you don't get what you want—" John held his stomach now.

"I always get what I want," Sherlock drawled before he could stop himself, his voice suddenly deeper than before, coloured with mirth.

John's eyes snapped up and he hiccupped one last stray laugh as his eyes calmed. He was still smiling, but something else crept into his look. He wiped away a tear that had escaped and took a deep breath.

Sherlock had always thought that feelings of this nature clouded the mind. He was more than a little drunk – with alcohol and John and laughing and the warmth of the bar; yet when he locked eyes with his friend, everything finally seemed clearer than it had in weeks.

In the churning water of the pool, they'd kept each other alive. Lightness enveloped his head. He was still in the water, still staring wide-eyed at this impossible human being in front of him, still breathing in John Watson. Through the blur, he was the only thing that remained in focus.

"John." His voice was deep and breathless. He had none left.

He barely noticed that he had stepped closer. Suddenly, he was almost chest to chest with John, who glanced up with a worried look. He saw his tongue poking out briefly, licking his lips. An unfamiliar heat grew in Sherlock, working its way up from his stomach through his throat, catching his breath; his heart beat faster and his skin felt flushed. Some still sober part of his brain catalogued all of these sensations for later examination, but otherwise… there was something inescapable about his body taking over from here. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind palace, a certain shelf cracked and tumbled to the ground, evaporating into simplicity.

Suddenly, instead of the usual fear of losing control, Sherlock felt only intoxicated with the sensation of _just letting go_ ; he knew it was incredibly dangerous. Such was the terror of infatuation and sentiment. But for the first time in a very long while, he remembered why people bothered with feelings and all of the mess that followed in the first place.

He could see the same intensity in John's eyes; saw the dilated pupils and his slightly parted lips. He was close enough to feel his friend's breathing, John's chest rising more obviously under his shirt than normal. He slowly raised his hand to John's temple and lightly brushed his fingers through his hair. John's eyelids fluttered nervously like tiny insect wings. Their heartbeats became a tangible presence between them.

John's hand that had been resting on the bar crept slowly forward and found its way onto Sherlock's arm. They remained still in the moment for what seemed like the slowest seconds Sherlock had ever counted. He felt John's pulse beating from his temple into his palm, John's hand caressing lazy circles on his arm, John's breath ghosting over Sherlock's clavicle, goose bumps tingling on his skin.

For that one moment, they were frozen in time; but the spell broke when John's eyes glanced past Sherlock and to something behind him. He blinked and looked up again. He swallowed drily and very slowly, very gently stepped away from Sherlock. Not too far, but enough to extricate himself from the hand caressing his hair. He smiled, his eyes reassuring Sherlock, but he still moved away. Sherlock felt a pout coming on and tried to regain some of his composure. He must have failed, though, because John gave him an amused smile. He removed his hand from Sherlock's arm and pointed.

"Lestrade," he said quietly.

Sherlock turned to see the DI slumped on their table, sleeping as peacefully as only a drunken man could.

"He's asleep."

"Excellent deduction, genius," he smirked, but his voice was full of fondness. "Come on, let's get him into a cab. He's better off sleeping I off at home."

John moved, brushing his shoulder on Sherlock's arm, as if he wanted to gather one last instance of closeness before they left. Sherlock was baffled as he looked after him. John's voice sounded… different. More composed. More assured. Sherlock, on the other hand, felt suddenly out of his depth. It was as if, a second ago, someone had handed John Watson a script, and now he knew the plot. Sherlock didn't even know the language of the play.

Soon, their awful drinks left abandoned on the bar, they found themselves dragging and half-carrying a barely conscious Lestrade out of the pub.

Outside, Sherlock waved into no particular direction and moments later, a cab materialized by the curb. John , propping up Greg's slumped body, just shook his head.

"How do you do it?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged and grinned at the familiar joke. They managed to manhandle Greg into the back of the cab. As Sherlock closed the door, the cabbie realized the two of them didn't plan on coming along and he leaned out of the window. "Oi! What am I supposed to do with this one, then?"

Sherlock told the cabbie the address and simply turned to go. He noticed John didn't follow. He glanced back at the cab and saw John leaning in a little, pulling a few notes out of his wallet. He apparently made a joke or something, because the cabbie laughed and actually tipped his hat at John.

When John stepped over and the cab was on its way, Sherlock had to ask. "What did you do?"

"What?"

"The… you… he laughed and everything!" Sherlock managed a few uncoordinated gestures.

John grinned. "Well, yes. I made conversation, perhaps threw in a lewd joke at Greg's expense, and gave him… lots of money."

"Why?" Sherlock was truly at a loss.

John shook his head and began walking down the pavement. "Because I want him to make sure our friend actually gets _into_ his house and is not just left on the doorstep!"

Sherlock looked back after the cab. "He will do that?"

"I think I got round to him – yes," John stated confidently, which was slightly undermined by his drunken slur.

"You are _way_ too trusting," Sherlock admonished.

"And you… _really_ are terrible with people," John laughed.

"Oh well," Sherlock said with a heavy sigh. "That's what I have you for!"

"Oh yes?" They stumbled on side by side down the deserted street.

"Yes," Sherlock managed. "You do all of the… social talkie thingies with witnesses and bereaved widows and such… things. You're so good at pretending you care and ep- emph- empathise," he brought out.

"Well," John chuckled and he poked Sherlock in the shoulder. "That, my dear detective, might be because I actually do care and empathise."

"Oh," Sherlock stumbled a little to the side. "That's right, you do," he said. Then he laughed. "It really does work on people though, just think of that nurse, she was all over you," he gestured vaguely at John's chest.

"What nurse...? Oh. Right," John smirked. "So you're still on about _that nurse_ , then?"

"What? Noo," Sherlock drawled. "What do you mean _on about_ , about what, what does that even mean? No." He felt a blush creep up his cheeks and he felt quite warm despite the cold night air.

"Yes you are. You were jealous," John laughed happily, clearly enjoying himself.

Sherlock's eyes flashed at John and the words were out of his mouth too quickly. "I'm selfish and possessive. You only figure this out now?"

"No. Pretty much figured you out right away," John said quietly, his eyes glancing up briefly, still smirking. "And you're not selfish," he added. Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that, so he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and they walked in silence for a bit.

"Aren't we getting a cab?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Naah," John slurred, walking into Sherlock's shoulder for the fifth time in as many minutes. "It's not actually that far and we could use the fresh air."

Sherlock sniffed and assessed his body. "From what I can tell, the fresh air seems to aggravate the problem," he managed. "I feel woozier than in the pub, if that's at all possible."

John laughed and suddenly roped his arm through Sherlock's as they walked.

Good idea, solid _John Watson idea_ as usual. They were both not entirely steady on their feet, so this would surely help.

"That's just your brain deceiving you, you're just as drunk as you were," John said.

"Well, technically—" Sherlock glanced at his wrist. "—23 minutes less drunk than I was."

John looked down at Sherlock's wrist and snorted. "You're not wearing a watch."

"Don't need one," Sherlock gave an exaggerated shrug, which nearly drove them off course again. With a quick pull on his arm, John steered them out of the path of an oncoming lamp post.

"John, you are walking most inefficiently," Sherlock grumbled. He didn't make any attempts to escape, however.

"That's me," John said, looking down. "I talk to people and I walk inefficiently." John laughed a little ruefully, and Sherlock heard a new note in there that sounded somewhat sad. He didn't want John to be sad; why would he be sad?

He stopped walking abruptly, which nearly made John fall over. Sherlock quickly pulled him upright, gripping his arms. John wore a befuddled look when he finally stood still. Although Sherlock wasn't _entirely_ sure whether either of them were actually standing still at all; he felt like he was walking on soft cushions strapped to his feet.

"No. John. Don't do that. Thing. Self-deprecating. That's not your thing. That's _Anderson_ , remember?"

John made a disgusted face that warmed Sherlock's heart with its genuineness. "You… are great, all right? Good."

John looked up at him and met his eyes. He cocked a contented half smile. "You know what? You're right." John was sounding pretty out of it, Sherlock had to admit. But then again, so was he.

"Of course I am, John, have you met me?" Sherlock went on. "You're a crack shot, nerves of steel—"

John's eyes widened and he stood up a little straighter.

"You have good medical knowledge –"

"—uuh, excellent medical knowledge, I think you'll find –" John interrupted, raising one admonishing index finger, poking Sherlock in the chest.

"Ow! Very well, excellent medical skills and knowledge," Sherlock smirked. "You ask good questions –"

" – excellent questions –" John muttered.

"—very well, excellent shot, excellent doctor, excellent questions, altogether a pretty excellent chap," Sherlock finished.

"Thank you." John, clearly done standing attention, slumped over and fell against Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock propped him up as best he could, shaking him gently in his arms. "Hey. John. Hey. Don't sleep here. I'm not carrying you." Oh, who was he kidding, he'd probably try if he had to.

However, John started awake again and managed to pull himself up a little. His head rolled sideways and he looked up at Sherlock, smiling stupidly. Sherlock felt absurdly fond of his blogger that very moment. He gently nudged John's head with his nose. "Come on."

John struggled upright, and they walked down the street arm in arm, steadying each other all the way to 221B Baker Street.

~~ SH ~~

John wasn't entirely aware of the journey home. He was simultaneously incredibly intoxicated and walking on air; Sherlock was there, not distant, no, he was right there in his arm, walking down the street, making jokes about everything; they recounted past cases, indulged in the occasional sentimental compliment, berated Scotland Yard, Mycroft, the Queen, and the guy who owned the pizza place that was just closing when they decided they were ravenous. They talked about everything and nothing, and John couldn't remember a single thing beyond a vague notion of _happy_ and _perfect_.

Underneath, John felt that something in him had loosened. The moment Sherlock had touched him at the bar, he knew. It was all true, not just a figment of his imagination, it was right there, between them like a tangible, magnetic field.

And he enjoyed it. He didn't feel the need to do anything about it right now. He could enjoy that delicious tugging in his chest a little longer and just see how things went from there. But he felt safe, finally, in the knowledge that everything was fine and all right and that he wasn't alone.

Finally, they rounded a corner and came upon the dark front door of 221B Baker Street. They stood in front of it for a moment. It loomed in the darkness, like a full stop to the end of their ambling walk. It felt like a prompt to the next chapter of this evening.

John (reluctantly) disentangled himself from Sherlock's arms. He turned his back to the door to see better in the orange glow of the street light. He patted his jacket for his keys even as he suddenly felt something imperceptibly shift in the air. Faster than he had any right to be, Sherlock stepped closer and gently pinned John against the door. His fumbling hands froze. Sherlock leaned over him, one arm outstretched past John's head, steadying himself on the door. He tried to take a breath, but his lungs no longer cooperated.

"John," Sherlock breathed, a tiny, smug smile playing around his lips.

John tried to remember how heartbeats worked, he really tried.

He jumped violently when the lock clicked open and the door gave way behind him. Sherlock's right arm quickly snaked around his waist and caught him before he toppled backwards over the threshold. He was holding his keys in one hand. Right. The tall lean body moved in even closer now, manoeuvring them both inside.

The small noises of the city were cut off as the door snapped shut with a gentle click. Warm, dry silence surrounded them. Sherlock still had his arm around John, his hand resting lightly on his hip, slowly walking him backwards until they were almost at the stairs. His eyes were locked with John's. The intensity in them had him spellbound. Heat began to spread through John, slowly travelling downwards. His knees felt weak.

"Sherlock," John managed, his voice cracked. His heart nearly exploded in his chest with _want_.

"John. There's an experiment I need to do before we … pass out," Sherlock drawled, his voice impossibly low and almost growling. He was so close now that John felt his chest vibrate when he spoke.

"Whatever you need—" John mumbled. He felt himself being gently leaned against the wall. Sherlock's other arm rested on his shoulder now, and he dipped his head. John angled himself so that he could look up. His breath caught again as he became completely overwhelmed with the sight. Dark lashes moved slowly closer and John felt the gentle press of Sherlock's nose against his skin before finally, soft lips met his.

He froze at the touch; his nerves completely short circuited from the sensation.

His lungs were the first to regain their function, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. Suddenly, his senses were filled with Sherlock. His smell, his beautiful eyes fluttering close, the soft skin against his own, the curls tickling his forehead. There was a beat, and… _oh_. _this_.

John's every last coherent thought dissolved.

His eyes shut; he melted into the kiss with an involuntary shudder that raced through his entire body. Sherlock gripped him a little tighter, and he felt an answering tremor from the body pressed against his. John gently began moving his lips, kissing back. His arms went up to slide under the large coat and jacket, grabbing Sherlock's shirt, relishing the reality of _this actual body_ moving slightly under his hands.

He slowly travelled upwards and tangled one hand into Sherlock's hair. At the touch of John's hand sliding up the skin of his neck, Sherlock released the most incredible quiet moan into their kiss. John's heart skipped a beat as the sound struck him at his core. He tried to press closer into Sherlock, pulling his head towards him.

Sherlock generously obliged and pushed closer, their bodies now flush together, John pressed deliciously against the wall. He couldn't stop the little helpless whimper that escaped him; yet this only spurred Sherlock on who groaned and plunged his tongue into John's mouth, tasting and exploring. What had started out as a gentle kiss now became a full on glorious snog.

What either of them hadn't calculated on was how drunk they still were. John felt sure that he was imagining the shift in gravity due to the fact that his gorgeous friend was kissing him senseless; however, he had to concede he was wrong when Sherlock and he crashed painfully into the stairs.

"—ow," John moaned into Sherlock's mouth, but that didn't stop either of them. They lay sideways on the ground, half their bodies angled awkwardly on the staircase. Sherlock wound his arms around John properly now, pulling him against him. John's head was spinning; the distinction between up and down rapidly disappeared, and only Sherlock's body, his arms, his mouth, his long legs tangled with his own, anchored him into reality.

John pulled himself away from Sherlock's lips to explore; he pressed desperate kisses to the long, slender neck and under the earlobe, at which Sherlock gave a delightful tremble. In between, he kept whispering John's name, as if he couldn't believe he was there. John raked his fingers through the black curls, sighing in contented bliss.

After some time, their kiss slowed and they just touched, running fingers over arms and hips and necks, and pressing occasional caresses against a jawline, a nose, a forehead.

John's sleepy, inebriated brain just barely noticed how he inevitably snuggled closer to Sherlock, his head resting on the slowly rising and falling chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms and his coat around him, sitting halfway on a step, leaning back against the bannister.

He felt a rumble in Sherlock's chest. "I was right," Sherlock mumbled happily.

"Hmmm?" John arranged his arms around Sherlock's back inside the coat, gently stroking the fabric.

"Experiment was… a success," Sherlock managed blurrily. "This was, as I suspected, much more pleasant without the taste of chlorine and blood."

John let out a soft chuckle and grinned into Sherlock's shirt before he let the warmth and the feel of the steady breath lull him to sleep.


	11. The Morning

**~~ One Breath 11: The Morning ~~**

A blurry haze of light began creeping up on John's brain. Additionally, the dull, painful sound of a voice wormed its way through his ears straight to his pain receptors. _Female, older… ah_. Mrs Hudson. John was entirely unable to comprehend what she was doing in his bedroom at this time. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it felt way too early to be woken up.

She seemed to be calling his name. Perhaps something was the matter? He vaguely tried to assess his bodily functions. Was he injured or something? With another stabbed reminder he noted he had a headache. Also his back was killing him. His arms and legs were at unusual angles… well, one arm, that was; he couldn't feel the other one at all. Also, his bed seemed to have suddenly turned into wood and felt suspiciously like a flight of stairs.

"John? John!" Mrs. Hudson tried again. She sounded a little worried but mostly exasperated. "Sherlock! Come on, boys," she insisted.

John felt, rather than heard, a low grumble vibrate next to his ear. He directed his attention to it and found that he was lying on something soft and warm and covered in a shirt. As if triggered with an electric shock from the origin of his cheek, his skin suddenly developed a surprising sensitivity as he registered the feel of a coat drawn across his back, his legs tangled with other legs, his hand pressed somewhere _underneath_ said shirt against soft skin…

The sudden wave of senses sweeping over him unfortunately brought with it a wave of remembering and… nausea. He blinked and immediately felt dizzy. The light was glaring and bright and he wasn't sure which memory his brain ought to tackle first. John groaned, half of the sound being muffled by the chest his face was pressed into. The body that smelled, felt and sounded like Sherlock. Oh dear.

"Dearie me, you really went to town last night, didn't you?" Mrs Hudson was prattling on in amusement, pulling the coat – Sherlock's coat – from John's shoulders. John shivered at the lack of warmth; or perhaps it was the nausea, who knew.

"Sherlock!" She tried again, but to no avail. "John, come on. You better get to bed and sleep it off properly. I'll bring some aspirin," she added helpfully and bustled away to her flat. _Painkillers_ , oh yes, divine idea. John would have confessed his undying love for their landlady then and there if he hadn't felt like throwing up as soon as he opened his mouth.

He slowly began to extricate his dead arm from where it was trapped behind Sherlock's back, wincing from the onset of violent pins and needles. Sherlock moaned weakly beneath him, a sound that bypassed John's brain entirely and went straight to his bones, turning them into mush. He felt his face flush and suddenly had to fight a very alarming mixture of arousal, nausea and fondness welling up inside him. _Okay, one thing at a time._

John scrambled off of Sherlock – _oh God, had he been pressed up to him like that all night?!_ – and sat back on the stairs. He wasn't sure whether to feel completely thrilled at their nightly adventure or to feel absolutely terrified. Probably a bit of both. Sherlock finally roused himself a bit and pressed a hand to his head and groaned in pain. John felt a stab of smugness at this; even the great genius wasn't immune to ludicrous amounts of alcohol. That was something, at least.

Mrs Hudson returned and smiled at John. "Well, that's better, dear. Care to give me a hand with this one?" She gestured at Sherlock, who seemed to have trouble focussing on anything or anyone.

John felt more likely to be a hindrance than a help, but nodded. He took a few deep breaths and very slowly got to his feet. Thankfully, the nausea kept quiet for now, but he decided he needed to lie down again as soon as possible. Which right now seemed to mean: as soon as Sherlock was up the stairs.

Later, John was never able to recall how they managed it. He draped one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulder, and Mrs Hudson held on to the other one, walking backwards up the stairs. She dragged and John heaved, and Sherlock at least kept his legs steady and didn't impede their progress too much. They reached the landing, and as soon as they stood, Mrs Hudson scurried around Sherlock's other side and helped to carry him.

John's head pounded with a vengeance. Being wrapped around Sherlock like this suddenly felt achingly familiar; like a half-remembered dream in which he had been allowed to try _anything_. And yet it had been too brief. He just _let_ Sherlock kiss him to his heart's content before they fell asleep... and now he wished he'd done more himself. _Said_ something or _done_ something to make sure this was not just a one-off, a drunken joke... The memory was all too blurry and marred by fuzzy inebriation to be very reassuring as to what it _meant_. John yearned to go back to that moment in the half-dark corridor, to replay the scene and to take in every sensation the feel of Sherlock's body pressed against his, the feel of those lips on his, to catalogue it all for future reference, in case this was the only... _the last time..._

 _Oh God_ , that was definitely a terrifying thought. To have been allowed to snog Sherlock Holmes, to find out that it was everything he never dared imagine and more... and _not to do it again_. He felt almost sure that the kiss hadn't just been an 'experiment' to Sherlock; the way he'd looked at him in the bar and all of the little moments that followed... but it was all so unclear, he might have imagined things. John knew he was a hopeless romantic, just as he knew that Sherlock would usually never let his guard down so much... Hm. There was a thought. Would it be worth to get his flatmate regularly pissed just to have an excuse make out with him? Hangover versus snogging Sherlock... Yeah, definitely worth it, John thought wryly.

He had to work very hard at that moment to not let these stray memories of the previous night go any further into detail about bodies flush against each other and hands tangled in hair... or he would probably combust on the spot. So he gritted his teeth and focussed on carrying his friend, putting one foot in front of the other.

They reached Sherlock's bedroom. Mrs Hudson let go of her burden for a moment and darted in to throw back the covers on the bed. John managed to pull the large coat and the suit jacket of Sherlock, who finally decided to wake up a little more from the jostling. He gave a displeased grunt and made a valiant effort to walk, which was, of course, doomed to fail. He tripped and fell with the grace of a disoriented cat, tumbling headfirst into his bed. Unfortunately, John was still attached to his arm at the time, so he tumbled right along with him. He was sure he made quite an undignified sound as he lay half on, half off the bed, trapped by Sherlock's lanky frame.

Mrs Hudson looked like she was about to laugh, but thankfully kept herself in check, smirking at John's expression. She pointed at the pills she'd put on the bedside table. "I'll just get you some water," she whispered and went back in the direction of the kitchen. John took a deep breath. Then another one. He glanced over at Sherlock, who still seemed oblivious to the world and their current predicament. He tried to wriggle free, but either Sherlock was a lot stronger than he looked or John was simply too hungover to coordinate his muscle movement. John's hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder for a moment, then his waist, then his hips, unable to decide what to do. It was impossible to move them both into a more comfortable position without manhandling Sherlock again, but John was incredibly reluctant all of a sudden. Touching Sherlock had never been an issue until now – the man wasn't exactly big on the concept of personal space – but suddenly it seemed like he was taking advantage of it.

John mentally shook himself. _Okay, no need to be squeamish about this. He snogged the living Jesus out of you last night, he won't mind... oh God._ John felt his heartbeat increase in tune with the images flitting through his brain again. It was typical, in a way. Sherlock always did things that infuriated John; it seemed he was also a terrible tease to _just go and do something like that_ and then leave him hanging, wondering what would happen _next_.

He looked back at Sherlock, who had shifted a fraction... but it was enough. Their faces were close, close enough to feel the faint breath tickling his skin. Sherlock's eyes were closed, the long, dark lashes delicately resting on his cheekbones. A few messy curls stuck out everywhere, ruffled by sleep and... another image popped up in John's head, of his own hands running repeatedly through Sherlock's hair, trying to pull him closer...

John took another deep breath. He finally threw his other arm around Sherlock and with the leverage, heaved them both higher up on the bed. At least now his legs weren't dangling uncomfortably over the edge any longer. Unfortunately, he was now even closer to the man in his arms. John swallowed. A soft feeling crept slowly into his heart. He knew it well; in fact he was so familiar with it he'd almost learned to ignore it. But now, with John's guard down, the long suppressed emotion saw its chance to return with a vengeance. It gripped his breath with a sudden force, stopping it in his throat. His arm felt heavy on Sherlock's waist, his face inching closer. John's chest felt like it was going to burst and his eyes were burning with a strange fierceness, watching the man he...

The sound of footsteps returned.

A heartfelt, motherly sigh swept through the room. "Oh, look at you two," Mrs Hudson whispered affectionately. John was only half paying attention, his heart nearly suffering from whiplash. He tried to pull his thoughts together, inching away from Sherlock's face as much as he could in his current position.

"I'm afraid... bit too much to drink last night. Lestrade's birthday..." he muttered.

"Yes, dear," Mrs Hudson murmured, completely uninterested. "I'll just put these over here, yes?" There was a bit of a bustle at the end of the bed. "Oh and let's... get you comfortable, shall we?"

John vaguely noticed she was pulling off Sherlock's shoes. Feeling embarrassed, John quickly kicked his own off by himself. His movement didn't go entirely unnoticed; Sherlock murmured something inaudible and his hand gripped the front of John's shirt. He pulled his legs up further to his body, sliding one leg over John's, effectively catching John in an inescapable, Sherlock-shaped trap.

"I, uh, could use a little help here," John stammered in the direction of where he assumed Mrs Hudson to be.

There was a short silence and he counted her breathing. "No dear… I don't think you do," she finally said, a smile in her voice. There was something that was different from usual, John noticed. She was usually teasing them – a lot, actually – but she was always playing their supposed relationship more as a joke. This time, it clearly wasn't.

John barely noticed her leaving, because Sherlock had moved again, brushing against him, making his body tingle everywhere they happened to touch. The silence of the room was only broken by Sherlock's soft breathing and a faint murmur of a radiator somewhere. He was pretty sure he'd stopped breathing hours ago.

John decided he had to calm down or he'd probably throw up, and that would mean he'd have to leave the bed. So he simply looked at Sherlock for a long while, focussing on his breathing, thinking of nothing but the face in front of him, waiting for his heart to slow down. The body underneath his fingers was warm and familiar, and a quiet happiness stole over him. John let out a long breath and finally relaxed his muscles. What was it yesterday Lestrade had said? That he was an idiot. John glanced at the shocking reality that was Sherlock in his arms. Yes, he really was an idiot.

He was in love with him. As simple as that. A wild thought came into his head that even if this was the last closeness, the last hungover cuddle he'd get, he'd enjoy every second of it as much as possible.

He grabbed the last bit of courage his brain allowed him and leaned forward. He gently pressed a kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose. Sherlock's face twitched briefly, and then, to John's intense satisfaction, his lips relaxed into a small content smile. He pulled John a fraction closer and John let him, holding him tightly and dropping gradually back to sleep.

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock awoke some hours later. How late, he wasn't quite sure, but it was daytime. The first thing he noticed was a dull headache and his dry tongue. He hated hangovers; that's why he rarely got drunk. He didn't like how that dulled the senses. He backtracked through the evening in his mind and wondered why he hadn't stopped the drinking earlier, after having been tricked to go to the pub in the first place… oh.

 _John._

The experiment.

Well, two experiments, really; both a success. Confirmed: alcohol lowered inhibitions, even Sherlock's. It may also turn people sentimental. However, he had also been somewhat overcome with sentiment on other occasions when John was around, namely when he had nearly died, and then when he'd woken up in the hospital. So perhaps it hadn't been the alcohol, but merely the effect of _John_ on his nervous system.

Also confirmed: kissing John without the distraction of blood, chlorine and mortal danger was much more pleasant. Brilliant, really. The next experiment would have to determine if it could become an even more satisfying experience without the taste of alcohol on their tongues and with all their mental faculties present.

However, this was where Sherlock hit the first snag: Lowered inhibitions meant that John had been less than clear-minded about going along with the experiment. Sherlock had taken advantage of it, naturally. He felt no guilt at the thought – John had _seemed_ to enjoy the activity at the time. Then again, Sherlock had to concede that he had been rather preoccupied _— soft lips, surprisingly willing, a body pressed against the wall, pliant and responsive, a shared breath_... He shuddered slightly. His senses may not have supplied him with accurate data.

All of these recollections buzzing through his mind slowly awoke the rest of his senses past his own throbbing head. There was something heavy pressing down on him and he noticed the familiar smell of John's shampoo. He moved his head a little and blinked.

John was soundly asleep, his head resting in the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's arm was inexplicably around him, as if he'd tried to pull him closer during his sleep. The thought created a warm and fuzzy sort of sensation in his stomach that Sherlock wasn't sure he was quite awake enough for. John's arm was lying protectively across Sherlock's chest. It was warm and comfortable, and Sherlock had no idea how they had gotten to this point.

In the hospital, Sherlock had indulged in being close to him when he joined his bed. He had felt the need to make sure John was alright, that he wasn't going anywhere. Again, John hadn't _minded_ , and... The last thing Sherlock remembered was them collapsing in the hall downstairs. Somehow they must have gotten into bed, and for some reason, John had decided to stay. Lestrade's words suddenly came back to him as he regarded John's arm effectively trapping him safely in bed.

 _Have you considered that John might feel more than friendship towards you?_

Yes, of course he had considered it. He was also very much aware of the fact that so many little things about this could be incredibly misleading. He'd meant it at the bar the night before: he had observed couples before, and most of them, it seemed, threw themselves into relationships with people entirely unsuited to them. Most of them did it because they were lonely; some of them simply for the sexual aspect of it; some because they thought that _that was just what one did_ (he partly classed John in this category) and some of them because they had masochistic tendencies and deliberately stuck with people that were bad for them. All in all, nothing Sherlock would consider worth his while.

His head was aching fiercely, but he forced it onwards. So his body instinctively reacted to John. And John to him, it seemed. The kissing had certainly worked out surprisingly _grand_. But in the light of day, Sherlock doubted that John would like to do that again. He might feel more than friendship, but he would never act on it. Sherlock briefly considered getting John drunk again to repeat the experiment, but that seemed more than desperate.

So. John would either be awkward about his drunken misstep, or he would be terribly sentimental about it all. He remembered John's earnest look and his words, _I don't actually mind_. Was he just expressing his comfort at being this close a friend? Or did he mean that he actually _wanted_ them to be a couple? Oh dear. John becoming sentimental about it might lead to him expecting all sorts of things from him, which Sherlock would be unable to provide. Then John would be upset that Sherlock didn't play by the mysterious relationship rulebook that John had learned by heart at some point. And he'd be disappointed and... _leave_.

Faint tendrils of horror crept up through Sherlock's chest and gripped his heart. Involuntarily, his arm tightened around John and his hand splayed on John's back, pulling him close. John made a soft noise and his hand slid further up Sherlock's chest. The warmth was soothing, but not enough to combat the developing minor panic attack.

John leaving was absolutely unacceptable. His life... and John's life... had become so much better since they lived at Baker Street together. Sherlock knew he'd cope on his own, of course he would. He had before. But suddenly, he didn't want to any more. Life was suddenly, surprisingly, more enjoyable, and _barely coping_ was not something he strived to go back to.

No, the only option was to try and continue as they had before. He'd pretend everything was normal and ordinary, and if John wanted to try and repeat certain experiments, he was definitely open to that; but he wouldn't push anything, in case he was mistaken about John's... _feelings_ on the matter. He cringed at the word.

He never thought that John would become his most difficult case to date. He needed to think clearly, and having this soft, warm body sleeping half on top of him, a body that smelled so familiar and so... _wanting_ _more_... it was doing things to Sherlock that he'd never admit to anybody. And it messed with his head. Unacceptable.

He slowly disentangled his arm and his body from John, trying very much to ignore the insistent signals from his body that told him to stay right there and, even better, wake up John in a decidedly unambiguous manner.

 _Oh Jesus_. Sherlock fought down the images that presented themselves to his head and slipped silently out of bed. A cold shower sounded like a great idea.

 **~~ SH ~~**

When John awoke, he was alone, in Sherlock's bed. Unfortunately, he was also utterly sober by now. The drunk abandon of the night before had faded completely, as had the soft, hungover sentimentality of the early morning. He sat up, holding a hand to his head. Intense embarrassment swept through him. A million thoughts pushed through his aching head. He looked around. Through the drawn curtains he saw dull light and heard the noise of the street. It was probably sometime in the afternoon. He hadn't slept this long in ages. Not that he felt exactly refreshed or rested.

On the bedside table he saw the aspirin and the glass of water Mrs Hudson had left. He gulped both down quickly to at least relieve one of his worries. He looked over Sherlock's bed, wondering when he'd gotten up. _Sherlock_.

Suddenly, he had to go. He couldn't stay in here one minute longer. He felt mortified at having invaded Sherlock's privacy like this. What had gotten _into_ him? He should have left him there and gone to his own bed.

John left the bed, steadied himself and let out a forceful breath. He picked up his shoes and padded to the door. When he opened it, he froze. Voices drifted over from the sitting room. John opened the door a little wider and listened a moment. The voice was unfamiliar and had a pleading quality to it. In between, John could discern Sherlock's deep baritone mumble monosyllabic replies. A client, then.

John groaned a little. He quickly assessed his options. He didn't fancy slinking past a client, coming from Sherlock's bedroom, looking as ruffled as he did in last night's clothes – people already talked, didn't they? He may not mind, but it was still a bit too much out of his comfort zone. Perhaps a shower was a better idea for the moment. John sneaked into the bathroom and was immediately assaulted by the smell of Sherlock having had a shower before him.

He marvelled at what a difference last night had made. For weeks, he had gotten used to the closeness of living together with Sherlock. Had become accustomed to Sherlock's complete ignorance about personal space. He knew the man's eating habits (if he ate), the way he liked his tea, the slight blisters on his fingers after he'd played the violin all night, lulling John to sleep, the smell of his shower products and aftershave. It was absolutely ridiculous that these things should suddenly come into such stark focus.

After a shower that was perhaps a bit longer than usual, John tentatively snuck back through the corridor, wrapped in a towel. He was still dripping a little, but he simply wanted to get to his room as quickly as possible. The flat was silent. It seemed he was in luck - the client was gone. Knowing Sherlock, though, John suspected he was lying on the couch or sitting in his chair completely motionless, thinking about the case. So John opted to skip the sitting room and moved quickly through the kitchen door to the landing.

" _John_!"

John's heart nearly bolted from his chest. Sherlock stood right in front of him, clad in his coat, looking ready to go out. His phone was in his hand.

John made some kind of unintelligible noise, staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock was staring back, his lips slightly parted in surprise. Slowly, almost forcibly, his eyes dropped to the towel slung around John's waist. His eyes widened, and then travelled unbearably slowly up John's torso, finally meeting John's gaze once more. John blinked and tried to take in the widened pupils, to understand the flush that tinged Sherlock's cheeks, mirroring his own.

John cleared his throat and held the towel a bit tighter. He saw Sherlock swallow almost unnoticeably. "Good morning," he said, his voice much steadier than he felt. He tried a little smile to take away the sudden heaviness that seemed to have developed around them.

"Uh. I just texted you the address," Sherlock said, still sounding a little stunned.

"What?"

"There's a case," Sherlock said. A mask slid back into place and his face looked impassive again. Back in control. John wished it was that easy for him.

"Our client's girlfriend disappeared; I suspect she's involved in a series of robberies Lestrade hasn't managed to solve so far, so…" he gave John a non-committal shrug. "Thought it might be interesting." His voice belied absolutely no interest in anything whatsoever. John frowned a little. This didn't sound at all like Sherlock when he was on a case.

"Uh, sure, I'll just…" John made a small movement forwards to get to the stairs. Sherlock took just a moment too long before getting out of the way, looking extremely out of sorts. John managed to get past him and turned around. Sherlock began heading down the stairs quickly. "You going?"

"Yes. I sent you the address. You can meet me there."

They hesitated for a moment. "Sherlock… are you all right?"

Sherlock's lips pressed together in a tight-lipped, completely fake smile. "Yes, of course. See you there."

He practically ran out.

John heaved a deep sigh. It was going to be a long day. He trudged up the stairs to get ready – to follow this mad man into another adventure.


	12. Breadcrumbs

~~ One Breath 12: Breadcrumbs ~~

Sherlock took a cab to their client's – Frederick Rodney's – address after extricating himself from the dangerous situation on the landing. Once he safely slammed the cab door and retreated into the seat, he tried to calm his heartbeat. He felt as if he'd fled from some kind of death threat, barely escaped a lion's den. Normally, he relished these situations, if it was related to a case. But it was _John_. Of all people. Friendly, quiet, sociable John.

 _Wet, tousled, naked John_ , his subconscious reminded him, and the thought went straight to his groin. Sherlock groaned and shifted in his seat. This was exactly why he wanted things to go back to normal. He had never been this distracted, especially not on a case. Granted, the case was not the most exciting; he had only taken it because it gave him something to do, some reason to get out of the flat where John was peacefully sleeping off his hangover _in Sherlock's bed_.

He closed his eyes in frustration. It was too much, and it was too dangerous. He had nearly thrown all caution to the wind then and there, grabbed his infuriating, distracting flatmate and dragged him back to his still-warm bed. For a moment, his head leaned back as his imagination recalled the scene in vivid detail. John's smile, trying to look calm and casual; John's intense eyes, telling an entirely different story. The hand gripping the towel tighter; Sherlock imagined it gripping his head instead, running his fingers through his hair. John was always so attentive – would he be an attentive lover?

Sherlock hadn't had a lover in a long while, and if he remembered correctly, he'd been using at the time, so the memories were fuzzy and mostly unpleasant. After that, he'd classed sex as a useless distraction, discarded it along with the drugs, and focussed solely on The Work. Until now, he had tried to disregard that aspect of his body entirely. He was used to ignoring the need for food and sleep, why should fleeting pleasure be any different?

Until bloody John had to show up and be… _John_. Who had been willing to sacrifice his life for him; who, for some insane reason, _cared_. John had been incredibly intimate with him, sharing their breath under water, and not teased him about it afterwards; he had revived him when he should have drowned, and he hadn't made stupid jokes about Sherlock's weakness and inability to make it to the surface; he hadn't said anything about their _moment_ in the hospital either.

A feeling of safety settled in his mind. For the first time, Sherlock considered that getting closer to John might not be such a terrible thing. It was, in fact, dawning on him that, if it came to it, John was the only person he would ever trust with his body like that. His body seemed to like that thought; the… _experiment_ they'd shared had finally kicked all of the physical sensations into overdrive that had been biding their time for the past weeks. These feelings had been growing ever since the pool. Or perhaps ever since John shot the cabbie. It didn't matter. They were _here_ , now, asking to be dealt with.

Sherlock mentally berated himself for letting his control slide so quickly. He had just come to the conclusion that he couldn't risk losing John over something like relationship issues or misunderstandings and certainly not something so idiotic as these _urges_ ; and then his hormones (or whatever was responsible for this sudden shift) immediately betrayed him. He wanted to kick himself when he remembered how his eyes had involuntarily raked over his friend's body. _My flatmate, the lewd sociopath_. It didn't matter to Sherlock what anyone thought of him, but suddenly this seemed to change, because what could be worse than _John_ thinking that he was like that?

Enough. He needed to stop. He needed to get a bloody grip.

 **~~ SH ~~**

John arrived at the client's place about an hour later. After getting dressed and having breakfast, he vaguely felt like a human being again, albeit a bit tired. The house was a nice suburban place, not too shabby from the looks of it. He went up to the gate, rang the doorbell that said _F. Rodney_ and waited. A dog began barking somewhere, and suddenly a black Labrador came chasing around the side of the house. The dog ran back and forth excitedly by the gate, and John grinned. It didn't seem like the concept of 'watchdog' was really known to the bouncy creature. It looked more likely to lick his face than bite him. The front door opened and a man shouted "Abby, here!" and the black lab did a 180° spin at lightning speed and ran up to the door. The man kneeled and gave her a quick cuddle, calling over. "Come in, it's open!"

John closed the gate behind him and walked up to Mr. Rodney, who straightened and shook John's hand.

"Mr. Rodney, my name is—"

"John Watson," the man beamed at him and gripped his hand tightly. "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes told me you were coming as well. So good to meet you, Dr Watson. And please call me Freddy. I love your blog."

John smiled in surprise, feeling pleased. "Uh, thank you. And it's John," he added amicably. At least someone today was polite and normal, he thought. It made for a relaxing change.

Abby the Labrador seemed to agree with her master's opinion wholeheartedly and ran excited circles around John as he walked into the house. He stopped for a moment in the hall when Freddy took his jacket and lowered himself into a crouch to pet the dog. Abby took the chance immediately and licked his hand and face to show her appreciation of such an abundance of cuddles. John laughed. Some of the tension in his chest dissipated a bit when confronted with such guileless joy.

Suddenly, he saw something out of the corner of his eye and looked up. Sherlock was standing in a doorway down the hall, still clad in his coat – clearly he didn't appreciate being parted from it – and looked at him silently. There was something in his eyes that made John's heart constrict. For some reason, he knew it was something different from what happened on the landing. Something buried. He couldn't help himself, though. He stood up and smiled at Sherlock. Even after all the confusion in his head, it was simply good to be on a case with him again. The dog continued to bounce around him as he made his way into the living room. Sherlock retreated to the sofa and merely greeted him with a thoughtful "John," when he came in.

John smiled again, still trying for normalcy, and they sat and drank tea and let Frederick Rodney talk them through the case. His girlfriend (and from what it sounded like, soon-to-be-fiancée if Freddy had anything to say about it) Helen was missing. He had reported it to the police when she didn't show up for a date two days earlier and hadn't taken his calls or answered the door when he went to her flat. The police had naturally assumed _personal reasons_ and said that they'd look into it. Frederick snorted, clearly quite upset as he recounted the story. "The sergeant even had the guts to say that ' _maybe she just wasn't that into me_ '. As if I was some kind of stalker! As if I didn't know Helen!"

John absent-mindedly patted Abby's head in his lap. She was lying on the couch between him and Sherlock, looking up with sad eyes as if to emphasise _that of course his master knew his lady friend_. John sighed and glanced at Sherlock. The detective seemed deep in thought, which was odd, seeing as Sherlock used every possible opportunity to berate clients about their ill-suited relationships. Right now, the silent figure seemed more preoccupied with the dog in John's lap for some reason.

John took the chance to take charge of the conversation. He asked Freddy everything about his girlfriend's habits, her address, her hobbies and so on, and took careful notes. "So you've been together almost five years, and you never moved in together?" John asked after a while.

Freddy looked around and his comfortable living room. He sighed. "I offered. I'll be honest, Dr Watson—"

"John, please." John saw Sherlock's hand twitch out of the corner of his eyes.

"John. I've been meaning to ask Helen to marry me for months. But… I wanted to wait until we'd moved in together. I believe in trying out sharing a life before committing, you know? It's ridiculous, though, we're great together. I just... well, previous experiences, you know. I don't like surprises."

John nodded wisely, even though he'd never been in the situation before. Hell, he'd moved in with Sherlock without knowing anything about him. _Apart from that he was brilliant and made his psychosomatic limp go away and his heart speed up… 'and that's enough to be going on with, don't you think?'_

"So I thought I'd just ask her and see if she would finally understand that it didn't matter, after all."

"That what didn't matter?"

"She's not… _rich_ , Helen." Freddy looked at his lap, embarrassed. "I inherited this house and some money, and I have a good job. I am reasonably well off and could easily provide for the two of us. The house is too big for me, and she lives in such a small flat." His hands began fidgeting nervously as he looked up at John. "We even discussed children and I told her that I didn't expect her to turn into a housewife. She could keep her job; I'd have no problems staying at home for a while myself. It's all _fine_ , really. I don't see what her problem is." He gave John a pleading look and John tried to look as commiserating and understanding as he managed. Sherlock was still watching him, for some reason.

Freddy took a deep breath to steady himself. "Anyway, she said she wouldn't consider it until she was able to pay me for half the house. She said if she was going to live here with me, then she wanted to hold her own." Freddy rubbed his hands down his face. "It's ridiculous! And now she's nowhere to be found and I'm worried that she's gotten into some kind of trouble."

John flipped through his notes and circled the name _Earnsfield's, Hammersmith_. "What about the auction house," he asked. "Hasn't she been in for work?" John noticed that Sherlock gave him a look, but he ignored it for now.

"No," Freddy sighed. "She apparently took sick leave. But she never told me she was sick, and the last time I saw her she didn't seem ill at all."

"When was that?" Sherlock's deep voice finally picked up the conversation. John twitched a little and Abby looked at him reproachfully when his hand stilled its ministrations on her head.

"Uh, she was supposed to come over on Friday night. Dinner and a movie," he smiled sadly. "I saw her last week Tuesday for lunch. I went to the police this Monday."

Sherlock sat up and leaned forwards. "And on Tuesday, did she seem different to you? Was she nervous or particularly happy about something?"

Abby turned her head to Sherlock as if to say, _if this one is too distracted to pet me, what about you_? She nudged his legs a little. When Freddy answered, Sherlock absent-mindedly reached down and began ruffling her fur. John smirked a little when Abby's tongue lolled out and she looked as pleased as ever.

"Uh, no, I don't…" Freddy hesitated. "Actually, she did seem rather pleased about something. I didn't mention it, and she didn't tell me anything, but she seemed excited or happy, like… like…"

"Like somebody who knows they're getting a promotion," Sherlock supplied smoothly.

"Yes," Freddy said, looking nonplussed. That's exactly what it seemed like. How did you know?"

Sherlock merely shrugged and continued to pet Abby. "Did she keep any personal things here?"

"Oh, bits and bobs," Freddy said. "She has clothes and toiletries upstairs and some shoes in the hall. I think there's books as well. She usually stayed over the weekend," he said, swallowing heavily.

John's heart went out to the man. He clearly was very much in love and looked really worried. He remembered what Sherlock had said about his girlfriend being involved in a robbery and really wished it wasn't true.

Sherlock got up abruptly, causing Abby to snort in reproof. "May we have a look around?" John felt happy to be included in that statement and got up as well as Sherlock went to the door.

"Of course, look at anything you like, Mr. Holmes. Anything to help you."

Abby went to his side in sympathy and John and Sherlock made their way upstairs. Sherlock looked at Helen's belongings in the bathroom, designating John more suited to go through her clothes. John rolled his eyes but grinned at the same time. _Not really his area, eh?_

John sat down on the bed and looked at the book on the bedside table. A regular, unassuming novel. He flicked through, trying to see if there was something hidden inside it, when Sherlock's voice floated in from the bathroom.

"You're going to be disappointed."

John turned and saw him standing in the door, watching him again. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. "Why?"

"You feel sorry for Mr. Rodney. You wish that my deduction was wrong, that his girlfriend isn't involved with anything criminal. But she is. I am right, and you will be disappointed."

Contrary to what John had expected, Sherlock sounded not at all pleased or smug about this. He seemed thoughtful and somewhat sad.

"How do you know she's involved with the robberies?"

"You read about the case in the paper?"

John nodded.

Sherlock waved his phone to indicate some research he'd done online. "The auction house, Earnsfield's, was not involved on the surface of things. However, I remembered reading a name in conjunction with the case, so I looked it up. The stolen goods were antiques, mostly decorative items or furniture. They had been appraised and were ready to be sold by a rival auction house, Danby's. The woman running Danby's is called Margaret Fletcher."

He held up a bottle of prescription pills. "From the medicine cabinet. _Fletcher_ _comma_ _Helen_ ," he read out distinctly.

John replaced the book and got up. "I'm guessing a visit to Danby's is in order?"

Sherlock quirked a brief smile. "I love a good auction, don't you?"

 **~~ SH ~~**

John had made sure to give Abby another affectionate cuddle before they left, assuring Freddy to call him with any news. Sherlock watched his antics with a fond eye roll. When they were back in a cab, he kept his eyes fixed outside the window.

John watched him for a while as they got underway and finally asked, "how did you know about the promotion?"

Sherlock didn't make any recognition he had heard him, but after a bit of a pause he replied. "I didn't _know_. I guessed after examining the evidence."

"Which was?"

Sherlock scoffed. "You took all the notes, didn't you?"

John smiled. "Yes, but you love explaining your deductions to me. So come on, genius, dazzle me." John crossed his arms, steadfastly looking at Sherlock, willing him to look around.

However, Sherlock did not oblige him this time. "Do you like dogs then?" he asked.

John paused. Sherlock never let go an opportunity to shine, not in front of him anyway. He may ignore Lestrade's pleas for explanations nine times out of ten, but he usually loved to show off his findings to John in the cab on the way home. John's chest fell a little when he realised that the embarrassment or whatever Sherlock was feeling about the previous night must still be at the forefront of his mind.

A distraction seemed like a good idea so he answered truthfully. "Yes, I suppose I do. I never had one, though. Abby was pretty friendly, so that helps I suppose," he said.

Sherlock snorted. "She was all over you," he said with a sniff, still looking out of the window.

John was surprised. He felt reminded of the conversation about 'that nurse' who had also been 'all over him'. However, that memory led him in the complete opposite direction of where he wanted this conversation to go, so he bit his tongue from letting slip a remark in the vein of 'are we jealous of dogs now?'. It wouldn't do to start this kind of banter all over again; it would only make Sherlock uncomfortable. He allowed himself a chuckle and looked out of the other window. A small voice in the back of his mind said, _but he brought it up, didn't he_? _Surely, the cleverest man in England would not miss the connotation of his remark_. John vehemently silenced that voice.

He took a breath and tried to change the subject. "Anyway, you're not entirely right," he said to the window.

Sherlock sounded like his interest was piqued. "Oh? About what?"

John tried to order his thoughts. "You're right that I will be disappointed. For Freddy, mostly. He seems to be a nice guy and he clearly loves his girlfriend. It would be disappointing for him to find out she's a fraud. But you are wrong if you think I want your deductions to be false."

John felt that his words had once more strayed into _serious_ territory and he swallowed. He turned to look at Sherlock when he didn't reply. Sherlock was still frowning at the window in thought.

"Don't worry about it. I'm just doing that empathy thing I'm so good at, remember?" John tried to joke, but why his brain saw fit to supply him with another snippet of conversation from the evening he was at a loss to understand. Sherlock winced a little as well. _Oh, great_.

"I can't help it," John added in a small voice, almost against his will. He studied Sherlock's impassive face that he knew was only a mask for some kind of inner turmoil, and he felt that perhaps he meant that in more ways than what they were talking about.

Sherlock finally looked around. "But you don't want me to be wrong?"

John flinched under the sudden scrutiny. "No. Because what matters is not what I or Freddy wish for - but what's the truth. And you always get to the truth." He looked straight ahead of him again, unable to say another word to Sherlock's face. "It wouldn't do for him to live a lie, would it?"

"Some people would disagree," Sherlock said thoughtfully and got his phone out, beginning to type on it quickly. "Some people would prefer to be happy, even if it's false. Most relationships are built upon it, I believe," he sneered.

John snorted. "You're very observant, Sherlock, but not when it comes to this."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Why?"

"Freddy wasn't happy."

"Of course not, his girlfriend is missing. And a criminal."

John shook his head sadly. "He doesn't know that. And I mean, he was unhappy before. You usually deduce everything about everyone; didn't you see what kind of a man he was? I met quite a few unhappy ones like him in the army. He wanted to _settle down_. He's got a house, a dog, even a picket fence – and he had Helen, and that completed the picture in his mind. He wasn't kidding; he really _couldn't understand_ why she was so reluctant. In his worldview, there was absolutely nothing stopping her."

Sherlock looked at him for a while, the tapping on his phone interrupted.

"You're too romantic. And Freddy is old-fashioned." The tapping resumed.

"Doesn't have anything to do with it."

"What?" Sherlock looked irritated now.

"It doesn't matter if I'm _romantic_. I don't want a house or a picket fence or a dog, but I can still empathise with his restlessness. I can understand the feeling of needing some kind of _closure_ or _safety_ or whatever you want to call it," he explained.

"You never struck me as someone who wanted _safety_ ," Sherlock observed. "On the contrary." He finally glanced over again, quirking an eyebrow.

John let out a little laugh and glanced back, catching Sherlock's eye. "There are different kinds of safety," he said quietly. What he really wanted to say was, _Sherlock, you idiot, I feel safer with you than I've ever felt, because you recognized my strange need for the life we lead and you let me lead it with you._

Sherlock's eyes widened just a fraction and John guessed that he understood at least some of what he'd tried to tell him. He looked away and was quiet now, for once actually listening. John took the chance. "You asked me once whether caring about people will help save them. I don't think so. But I can't help but feel for them; it's just a natural reaction for me. And I think it helps to understand them and their situation better." He looked at Sherlock again. "You use your amazing brain to solve cases. I use my… intuition, if you will, to help."

"I already deduced all of those things you said about him from the state of his tea cups and his bathroom mirror."

"Of course you did," John grinned a little. "And I had to go to all the trouble to talk to the poor man."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to dare him to continue with his observations.

John pulled out his notebook and took breath. He was always nervous about 'deducing' in front of Sherlock, because he usually missed _everything of importance_. But if Sherlock wasn't going to _dazzle_ him, he'd have to just try his best. "So. The only reason Helen gave for not moving in is the money," he began. "Even on a good salary from a respectable auction house I doubt she'd be able to cough up the money to afford even half of that property anytime soon; and it sounds like she doesn't even have that. She stays over there a lot and has been with Freddy for years. He has been burned by a previous relationship and doesn't strike me as a man who'd make the same mistake twice. He's sure about her being the one for him and she hasn't given him reason to think otherwise."

John flipped a page in his notebook and noticed Sherlock watching him. "This leaves two possibilities. Either she never had any plans to move in or marry him, which doesn't seem likely because why carry on the relationship with someone so 'old-fashioned', as you put it, if you're not into it as well."

"People often stay in misguided relationships, John," Sherlock interrupted.

John glanced at him, but he looked away again. "Well, yes, they do; but somehow… I don't know why, but she doesn't seem like the kind of person who would do that."

Sherlock smirked, but remained quiet.

"Second possibility," John went on. "She expected to come into quite a bit of money soon which would enable her to overcome her fear of dependency and move in with Freddy as an equal - in her eyes. Hence your deduction about the promotion."

John closed his notebook. "She works for an auction house and there may be a connection to another auction house there that happens to have misplaced valuable items." He looked at Sherlock. "You found that out whilst Freddy was speaking to you this morning and decided it was worth a look."

Sherlock waited a moment. His lips twitched in a smile. "Not bad."

John grinned. "Really?"

"—however," Sherlock began and John groaned.

"There is always something," he exclaimed, and Sherlock actually laughed.

"However," Sherlock began again. "There is a third possibility. She may be under duress."

John's humour abated a little. "Oh."

"Yes. And I believe you are right," he began, and John's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at this admission. "She is not the kind of person to carry on a pointless relationship and they are probably quite suited to each other."

"And how do _you_ know that?" John couldn't help but ask.

Sherlock searched his face, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, there's no need to tell you. You figured it all out with your _intuition_ ; I don't see why you need my input on it."

Sherlock comically turned his head back to the window, all injured pride and yet smirking underneath it all.

John really tried hard to keep a straight face. But that look was too much. He broke out laughing and was relieved to see that Sherlock began to chuckle as well. _Finally_ , John thought. A bit of _normal_ again. He relaxed back into his seat and they spent the remaining cab ride discussing the situation with the auction houses and Sherlock doing more research on his phone.

 **~~ SH ~~**

The next few hours after they reached their destination were spent with the painstaking gathering of _data_. John took notes, full well knowing that Sherlock saved every bit of information on his hard drive. But it gave him something to do other than ask a few questions and stare at his amazing friend in shameless adoration and longing. Oddly enough, Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to the looks he was getting for once and he carried on mostly as normal. If anything was the matter between them, only John seemed to pick up on it.

There was perhaps a tension in the elevator at Danby's that might not have been there before. Perhaps it was all in John's addled mind. The problem was that he was fairly sure Sherlock could actually, truly, hear him think. And he was thinking a lot, and loudly, especially stuck in a small box with Sherlock for fifteen floors, imagining being pressed against the wall by his body again.

But Sherlock said nothing and behaved fairly normally all day.

John finally beat down his overactive hormones and tried to focus on the case. It turned out a fairly obvious situation, once they knew what to look for, really. Margaret Fletcher was, in fact, Helens' mother, and a visit to certain _acquaintances_ of Sherlock (John did not want to think too much about the legalities, as usual) they found out that Helen owed her a lot of money.

Danby's, the auction house connected to the disappearance of the objects, was facing bankruptcy, this much was evident from fairly public sources. In the afternoon, when John was hastily eating a very late lunch at a coffee shop, Sherlock finally phoned Lestrade. After a bit of swearing that John could hear through the phone all the way on the other side of the table, he consented to drag his hungover self out to meet them and coordinate at Scotland Yard. Sherlock was smirking all the way over in the cab, seemingly pleased with having caused their friend undue stress. Before Sherlock could leave the cab at the Yard, John grabbed his sleeve and held him back. "One moment."

One eyebrow was raised delicately in his direction. John indulged a moment, looking into Sherlock's eyes. He didn't quite know how to phrase what he wanted to get across. Finally, he settled on, "be nice to him?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They walked into the Yard and made their way to Lestrade's office. On the table were two already empty coffee cups and Lestrade was nursing a third. He looked a bit rough around the edges, but otherwise not bad for a man they'd had to drag into a cab less than twenty-four hours before.

"This better be good," he greeted them, waving his coffee at their chairs in invitation and sitting down groggily.

Sherlock smirked evilly. "Third cup already, Lestrade? I thought you slept enough last night. Or were the tables at the King's Head not to your liking?"

"Shut it, genius."

John sent Sherlock a look and before he could stop himself, he said, "can't have been more comfortable than our staircase." Sherlock's mouth shut with an audible click and he narrowed his eyes at John, sending him a look that spoke volumes _._ Lestrade was watching them with some amusement. "Huh," he huffed, drawing his own conclusions, no doubt. And for once, they'd be correct, John remembered.

His face flushed a little and he looked away, regretting bringing it up. Sherlock had decided to pretend nothing was the matter _all sodding day_ and John had a dawning suspicion that he'd just utterly broken that unspoken ban.

Sherlock filled Lestrade in on the case, and between them, they managed to get a much clearer picture of the situation. They hadn't known about the apparently personal debt between mother and daughter, but Helen's 'disappearance' coincided with the disappearance of a large number of valuable items. Lestrade assumed this was the last big shipment before Danby's would close down.

The discussion went on for some time; evidence was looked at, files scanned. There was a moment when John felt that everything had gone back to normal, but then he and Sherlock were stooping over a folder together, talking through the facts and John got the feeling he was being watched and led along. He noticed Sherlock smiling at him in that seductive coaxing manner that dared John to give this one a go.

There was absolutely nothing John was going to deny the man if he looked at him like this.

He took a deep breath as he aligned several documents next to one another. "Well, okay. So she couldn't have filed for bankruptcy before this date, because the claim from the bank hadn't come through yet. But her daughter is the one in charge of these bonds and these notes here show that she was aware of the money issues the whole time. She couldn't touch the money in this account - that explains _her_ issues with Freddy," John added. Sherlock looked at him, twinkling expectantly. "So if these are exactly what we think they are," he said slowly. "Then the whole point is basically—"

"—insurance fraud." They both finished together, and a slow, grin spread over Sherlock's face, the kind of private smile that John fancied only he saw, and very rarely.

For a moment, their eyes were locked and John thought that Sherlock never let him come to his own deductions when he'd already arrived at them first, and he was convinced Sherlock must have a reason for that, because he never did anything unless he had a _good reason_ and—

"Oh get a room, you two," Greg exclaimed and noisily threw his empty cup into the bin.

It broke the spell and John pulled back hastily out of the bubble they had created around them, his face feeling warm. _I'd love to_ , he thought a bit grumpily.

He looked up to see Sherlock turning away, tapping quickly on his phone now that they'd both made the connection. It looked like it was back to business, but John didn't miss the slight tinge on the angled cheekbones, nor had he imagined that look on his face just now...

His musings were cut short when Sherlock exclaimed in triumph that he'd found the right dock. Things happened rather quickly after that. Lestrade got some people on the insurance fraud angle, and he would coordinate a raid on several cargo boats that they assumed would smuggle the stolen items that night.

However, they had a bit of a disagreement: Sherlock was absolutely convinced that he had deduced the right boat. Lestrade maintained that he had to monitor at least three to make sure they got the right one. Sherlock sneered that that would be a waste of police resources. Lestrade argued that he couldn't be responsible and it'd be his job if Sherlock was wrong.

Finally, Sherlock got up with a proud sniff and a swirl of his coat. "Well, don't let us keep you, then," he proclaimed. "You've got a raid to organise. Come along, John." He swanned out of the office. John shared an exasperated look with Lestrade and asked "and where are we going?" but he received no answer from Sherlock. He shook his head and turned back to the DI. "Sorry. He's just... well." He didn't know what else to say and made to leave, but Greg held him back a moment.

"John... what happened last night?" he sounded desperately curious.

John felt a bit trapped and opted for deflection. "Uh... we put you in a taxi. Did you get home all right?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, bloody decent cabbie that was," he said. "Should I be thanking you?"

"Consider it a birthday present," John smirked. Greg grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. He leaned in a bit and looked after the retreating form of Sherlock. "All right. Thanks. I'm guessing you got home just fine as well then?" His eyes twinkled a little.

"Uh, yes, absolutely."

"And...?"

"And nothing? Everything's fine, everything is... normal," John tried, sounding anything but normal.

"Right," Lestrade said drily.

"I gotta go, I'll text you if there's anything," John rambled quickly and almost jogged away from the office to catch up with Sherlock.

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock raised his arm lazily towards the street in front of Scotland Yard and got into the first taxi that materialized at the curb. He told the driver to wait a moment so that John could catch up. Sherlock scooted through to the next seat and watched as John almost ran down the steps. He quirked a smile. He felt curiously weightless again. Happy. He'd enjoyed watching John deduce. And the look of satisfaction on his face was definitely worth foregoing the bragging on his part this time.

Sherlock thought about these facts and put them aside for now, somewhat irritated about the strange changes of heart he was getting lately. Perhaps it was the kissing – the body released all sorts of chemicals to mess with one's brain when kissing, especially when doing it so rather thoroughly and intimately as they— he quickly dragged his mind back from the night before when John approached. If he stayed in this mind-set in such close proximity to the object of his study and musings... well, he wasn't sure whether he'd be able to stop himself from conducting further experiments.

John got into the car and they headed off, towards the docks. "How do you feel about a stakeout?" he asked John.

John turned to him. "Huh? Oh, you mean we're going to watch your boat and catch Margaret or Helen as they board it with the goods?"

Sherlock's lips twitched in a smile. "If it's the right boat," he said, trying to sound humble and failing miserably.

John raised an eyebrow and huffed a laugh. "Of course it's the right boat."

Sherlock felt a stab of pride and fondness. "You believe me more readily than Lestrade did," he pointed out.

"That's not true, actually," John said. Sherlock frowned.

"You're beginning to make a habit out of being contrary, John."

Another laugh. "It might do you some good! But no, I meant that you underestimate Greg."

"I doubt it."

"He believes you, too," John said. "It's just that his superiors don't know you or your reasoning, and without concrete evidence to motivate his actions, he might get into trouble."

Sherlock frowned. How or Why John had given Lestrade's dull job so much consideration and thought was beyond him. What did it matter if he had concrete evidence? _True_ was _true_. John believed him, of course. He narrowed his eyes now and leaned a bit closer. "Is this the empathy talking, John?" he deadpanned, and was rewarded with another, more amused laugh. His lips snaked into a smile. "We should have that looked at."

He noticed he'd said _we_ and not _you_ and it didn't bother him in the slightest. And John laughed next to him and they kept up the banter all the way to the docks and he was happy.


	13. In Deep

**~~ One Breath 13: In Deep ~~**

AN: Dear readers, have some delicious UST, darkness and crime scenes and some BAMF John on top! Also, the chapters somehow keep getting longer, lol. Just for you, I hope you enjoy! Thanks for sticking with this story, we're nearly there. Love xxx

 **~~ SH ~~**

The afternoon had given way to a wet and foggy evening by the time they reached the Thames. It would be some time before Sherlock thought anyone was going to make a move, so they stopped by a small fish & chip stall first. They sat on a bench, John enjoying his dinner and pretending not to notice that Sherlock was stealing the occasional chip from him. John enjoyed the companionable silence between them. It was just another day and just another ill-advised stakeout, but he was content. Sherlock made some stray observations about joggers and other chippy customers and John dared him to prove any of them, but pulled Sherlock back when he was about to confront an elderly lady about her gambling addiction. Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow at him. "You shouldn't make wagers you don't intend me to follow through," he admonished. John laughed, but then the thought flashed through him that there might be a few other things he'd like to _dare_ Sherlock to do and he quickly averted his face. Sherlock gave him an amused smile and stole another chip.

An hour later, they made their way through containers and storage sheds near a small shipping dock. It was almost dark now, and the farther they delved into the maze of container blocks, the more sparse the lighting became. John carried a torch, but he wanted to preserve the battery until it got really dark. He followed Sherlock, who was weaving through the walls of metal as if he knew exactly where he was going. He twisted and turned through high walls of metal, his steps echoing around them, and sometimes John only just caught sight of his coat as he turned another corner. Finally, they reached a concrete wall. The only other exit to the narrow path between containers was blocked off by a tall fence. Sherlock disappeared behind the last container in the lane and John heard scrambling. Suddenly, Sherlock stood on top of the container, looking down. "Aren't you coming?"

John huffed a laugh. "Where are we going?" He made his way around the container and saw a few stacked boxes creating a convenient way up. This was certainly not the first time Sherlock had been here. He scrambled after him and heard him say, "I know just the place. Come on."

John reached the top, and Sherlock was already up the concrete wall. It led to a rooftop of what was probably a warehouse. There were some large, convenient air con units and a rooftop exit for cover and you could basically overlook the entire jetty area from up here. When John walked to the other side, he saw the entrance to the container area as well as the street. It was the perfect vantage point.

"Why am I not surprised that you know the perfect stakeout place in this area?" John laughed and looked for Sherlock. He found him between two large air con cubes. It was a good spot to watch the jetty, but enough cover so they wouldn't be detected by someone glancing up.

However, John barely took note of this as he processed the scene. His breath hitched a little. Sherlock had taken off his coat and spread it on the concrete roof. He was sitting relaxed, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, his back leaned against one of the metal structures. The only sound was the vibrating hum of the air cons around them. The only space for John to sit was right there, next to Sherlock, on his coat.

It was obvious that he had made space for him there, and when John didn't move, he looked up and raised an eyebrow in question. John finally rallied and sat down. It was only a bloody coat (that Sherlock _loved_ and hated to get dirty). It was only them, for crying out loud. In the near-dark, on a rooftop, probably for several hours.

John sighed, praying to keep his head, and leaned against the metal, which was surprisingly warm at his back. The confines of their little seating arrangement meant that John's arm was brushing up against Sherlock's. John tried to freeze himself in space. He didn't want Sherlock thinking he was using the situation to touch him. Or that he was coming on to him in any shape or form. He didn't want him to be annoyed and affronted that John could possibly think of _such things_ while they were on a case. Which he didn't, of course. He nearly held his breath, not quite knowing how to move and not move at the same time and—

"John. Relax." The shoulder gently nudged his, startling him out of his thoughts. The quiet baritone seemed suddenly loud in the stillness. Sherlock was glancing down at him, a lazy smile playing around his lips. He shifted a little to make more space for him, and John was simultaneously grateful and annoyed at the removal of that spot of warmth on his arm. Sherlock wriggled a bit to get more comfortable and sighed. "We'll have to wait until the boat arrives. I wanted to get up here early; they might have people watching later to make sure the coast is clear, but not yet I think."

He looked at John again, who finally managed to get back to normal breathing and relaxed a little into their situation. "Once the boat is here, we can board it and text Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Shouldn't we wait for either Helen or her mother?"

"No. What counts now is the goods. If we find them, we'll flush them out sooner or later anyway. But I think… they'll be here."

His voice sounded a bit off and John saw a bit of wariness in his eyes. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, his look guarded. John decided to drop it for now and changed the subject. "So, how come you found this spot in the first place? There must be a story behind that."

Sherlock smirked. "A _long_ story."

John gestured around. "I think we have time to kill," he said and grinned. Sherlock smiled back indulgently, the way he only ever smiled at John, and obliged his curiosity.

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock was enjoying himself. He was with his favourite person and there were no annoying others to interfere or be stupid at them. The conversation was light and relaxed ever since John had gotten over his initial awkwardness. Sherlock was still processing what that had been about – he was sure it was what he thought he was, but at the same time, he was once again second-guessing himself every time he assessed John's feelings. Apart from these occasional thoughts, it was great. They were on a case, they would get the drop on the smugglers, and Lestrade would gape at him some more when he delivered them the right boat with the goods. All in all, a most satisfactory way to spend an evening.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise somewhere down between the containers. It was startling, but not as startling as John's violent jolt next to him. He nearly jumped out of his skin in shock and his hand landed on Sherlock's thigh, fingers gripping hard. Sherlock had to contain a laugh, and merely smirked as John looked up. He placed a finger on his lips to make sure he kept quiet, still watching John with amusement. John's eyes returned to their normal size and he relaxed his death grip a little. He let out a slow breath and, his cheeks colouring in embarrassment, glowered at Sherlock. This only made him grin. Sherlock couldn't help it, he just found his flatmate incredibly amusing. He leaned in a little, not intending to make too much noise, even though their voices would be disguised by the humming of the air conditioning units. "Has it been a while since the last covert op, Captain?"

John bristled predictably. He turned his head, his rejoinder coming out in a snappy whisper. "It's not the same, Sherlock!"

Suddenly, his eyes widened a bit, and Sherlock wondered what was _wrong this time_ , until he realised that there wasn't actually a lot of space left between them. John's eyes looked impossibly dark in the low light and Sherlock was suddenly assaulted with memories of John lying on his lap, bleeding out; John keeping close to him to keep warm, getting paler and paler. A strange feeling gripped Sherlock's heart, a feeling that was both pride and protectiveness, because he had gotten shot _for him_ and yet here he was again, putting himself in danger for one of their cases. Something righted itself in his chest _just so,_ like a weight settling into the right slot, and it felt great and irritating and daunting at the same time and it made him want to grip John and kiss him like he had last night, only this time he couldn't for the life of him think of an experiment or any other excuse to possibly allow it.

John's eyes dropped to his hand as he finally seemed to register that it was still on Sherlock's thigh, burning through his skin. His fingers clenched a little and then he withdrew his hand slowly and carefully. Sherlock took a steadying breath as John looked back up, and despite himself, Sherlock's eyes dropped to John's lips. John must have noticed it, of course he did; he was an idiot but not blind. However, John leaned back a little bit to give them both more space, defusing the situation. Sherlock's first impulse was to follow; how could he move _away_ when they were— but then his reasoning kicked back in. Yes, good, of course. Stakeout. He couldn't lose his head now, when they were so close. Infuriating _feelings_ , messing with his head.

John let out a long breath and focussed his eyes momentarily past Sherlock, sweeping the docks. "I don't think there's anyone there yet," he whispered and leaned back. Sherlock looked around as well and concurred with a quiet hum. He also noticed that John's arm was once again pressed up to him, and this time he felt curiously uninclined to do anything about it.

After a few minutes of silence and quiet breathing, John finally spoke. "I feel like a bloody teenager again," he muttered.

Sherlock looked at him again. In the dim light, all he could really make out was the barest hint of a smile over John's lips. Sherlock thought about what he said, but after a brief moment he gave up trying to understand it. "Why? Was going on stakeouts a hobby of yours before you joined the army?"

He felt John chuckle silently. "No."

Sherlock waited, really patiently he felt, but nothing more was forthcoming, which irritated him a little. "So then why?"

John sighed. "Well, you know…" he waved his head in Sherlock's direction and gestured aimlessly.

Sherlock thought about when he was a teenager. He'd been on his own most of the time. An angry and proud boy that had once or twice gotten a beating from some unpleasant people for pointing out their idiocies. In stark contrast to now, there had been no John to follow him around. Being a teenager had, all in all, been tedious and dull and he'd deleted most of it by now. He raised his eyebrows, hoping John could see his exasperated expression even in the dim. "No, I really don't, I'm afraid," he said honestly.

John looked up again and his smile dropped a little. Finally he saw. "Oh," he said quietly. "Uh, okay. Well, I…" he seemed to have difficulties, and rather sounded as if he wished he could take his previous comment back now that he had to explain it. Sherlock sighed and was about to put him out of his misery when John continued. "I mean, it's dark and there was a noise and there is..." he gestured between them again, unable to name what _there_ was, and Sherlock found himself hanging on the end of that sentence, begging John to continue, to define what it was that was _there_ between them, because he hadn't a clue…

"And I was startled, and it reminded me of when a teacher nearly caught me behind the gym after the school dance one year," John finished quickly, still whispering.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, picturing the scene. Young John, a gym hall, one of those odious balls… "Doing what?" he inquired, cocking his head to one side.

It was hard to make out, but John looked a bit exasperated. He glanced up from under his lashes, and there was something in his eyes, and he briefly chewed on his lower lip in that way that he did and… " _what do you think_ ," he said quietly.

Sherlock swallowed, but his throat was too dry all of a sudden. "Oh," he whispered, feeling supremely dumb for a moment. So _John thought_. He was reminded of. So this meant… Did it? Sherlock's thoughts sluggishly connected the dots and finally completed the picture. " _Oh_ ," he managed again, looking into John's eyes. There was no trace of amusement in them now, only a kind of intensity that was unique to John. Nobody else had ever looked at him that way.

Still whispering, John asked, "have you never… had that as a teenager?"

Sherlock's mind, finally catching on, dragged up fragmented memories from long ago. A rather good-looking boy on the rugby team. A few stolen looks. A beating from his classmates. A pretty girl on the idiotic boarding school orchestra, sitting next to him. Looking at her whilst playing. Hearing giggled voices one day about the creepy nerd who leered during practise. He never looked again.

"No," he said. He thought of John with his girl – or boy, it didn't matter – behind the gym. He thought of Sarah, who had broken it off and how John had not been too bothered. He thought of the nurse and all of the women who didn't mind if John _looked_ at them and the flirting that came so naturally to him. He thought of how all of them seemed casual and inconsequential when compared to how John had looked at him the previous night. To how John was looking at him right now.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine." Sherlock paused. They were still staring at each other. He remembered when John had slept at the hospital and how desperately he wanted to look into his eyes to _figure things out_. Now he was looking and his brain refused to figure anything out. It seemed to actually have left the conversation some minutes ago. He swallowed again, trying to calm himself. "And this is similar for you, then? To… back then?" He tried to keep up the train of the dialogue because he was not at all sure what he would do if he stopped and that scared him.

John's lips twitched in a contemplative smile. "No," he whispered. "I think this is something completely different."

And there it was. Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to draw back now, he just _had to_ , and somehow it felt right and all of his doubts as to what John did or did not want had gone completely out of the window as he leaned closer—

Sudden sounds made him freeze. Steps. Someone walking. Someone moving something heavy. Low fragments of speech drifted up towards the roof.

Sherlock's eyes jumped to John's (when had they dropped to his lips?) and saw them widen. He pressed his mouth together tightly for a moment and collected his thoughts. Damn it. Damn this stakeout. Damn John and his sudden _distracting_ irresistibility. Damn Margaret and everyone involved for their _frankly appaling_ timing.

John cocked a small smile, looking resigned, and somehow that made Sherlock feel a little better. He nodded curtly, and they both slowly got back on their feet, crouching between the air cons. Sherlock left his coat, there was no time. The game was on.

 **~~ SH ~~**

It was surprisingly easy, really. John later reflected on his blog that the thieves really hadn't expected anyone to come looking for them, because they couldn't have known how the case had progressed merely by involving Sherlock Holmes. Whatever the reason, John and Sherlock snuck between the containers as silently as possible and made their way to the jetty undetected.

There were some five or six people moving boxes. One woman stood out; she was by the side, coordinating everything. Margaret, no doubt. Sherlock and John used the cover of darkness to make their way to the boat and clambered over the side. As Sherlock had predicted, it wasn't a cargo ship at all, but one of the city cruisers for tourists. They weren't sure at this point whether Margaret had bought up a tourist company of some kind previously or if it was simply stolen, but it amounted to Sherlock hitting the nail on the head, as usual. They were pressed against the side of the ship on a small ledge next to the row of sightseeing windows and John grinned over to his friend. "You were right," he mouthed.

 _Obviously,_ Sherlock's eye-roll said. John gave him a pointed look. He leaned over and carefully pushed at a large sliding window. The boat had these all around the front part for the tourists to look out of, but there was a larger closed-off part in the back of the ship where they assumed the goods would be stored. Thankfully the window slid open without a sound and they snuck inside. They cowered between two rows of benches, half hidden by a low table. Sherlock held up a hand, _wait._ John nodded and glanced around the bench towards the main hatch of the ship, waiting for the thieves to cart in their load.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile. He held it out to John to see as he typed a message to Lestrade.

 _On the right boat. Thieves bringing goods on board now. Wait until underway. SH_

John nodded again. It would be much easier to apprehend them in the middle of the river with all of the goods securely in one place – if the police came sweeping in now, the thieves had too many opportunities to flee the scene.

They waited, listening to box after box being wheeled on board. John was beginning to lose all feeling in his legs from being crouched under the table. Also, there was the solid, tall, warm body of Sherlock pressed against him for the second time that night. After their moment on the roof, he wasn't sure how much of this his self-control could handle. Sherlock was literally breathing down his neck, making his hair stand on end and his arms erupt in goose bumps. He wished he could ignore the thieves, their bloody boxes and the case and just turn around and—

He shifted a little to regain the feeling in his legs and involuntarily leaned more into Sherlock kneeling next to him. He looked up and into Sherlock's face, half cast in shadows. His heart beat a little faster when he saw the look in his eyes. Sherlock blinked once, his eyes lit only by the glow of the low lights outside on the jetty. A small smile tugged at his lips and he regarded John with a pensive look.

The people moving boxes faded from John's perception; in fact, everything except Sherlock's face was blown clean out of his mind. Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh that conveyed so much more than words could. And then he leaned forward ever so slowly, and gently rested his forehead against John's. As if this wasn't overwhelming enough, Sherlock closed his eyes and just took another deep breath, steadying himself, breathing in John, and John felt his breath on his face and was reeling with the gentleness of the gesture, and he could feel some of Sherlock's soft curls pressed against him and his heart was hammering in his chest and all he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears with the heavy beats—

And something stilled inside him at the contact. He didn't know what would happen after, but he suddenly felt calm, knowing that it was not all in his head; there was something between them, and it felt magnificent and they would figure it out soon enough. There were a million questions in his mind, but they could wait. He smiled and Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled back. Yes, definitely, absolutely magnificent.

John felt centred and composed and ready for anything now that he knew they were somehow, miraculously, on the same page. Because of that, he wasn't really as shocked as he might have been at the sight of somebody gagged and bound being dragged on board. One of the thieves held the woman, who was struggling feebly, and manhandled her towards the back of the boat. John and Sherlock both shared a look, knowing it was Helen. John realised that Sherlock must have guessed at this development earlier and hadn't told John, probably not wanting to upset him unnecessarily in case he was wrong. The thought sent another stab of fondness through his chest.

After them, Margaret stepped on board and closed the hatch. She made her way up the small steps in the back towards the captain's cabin. John wished he'd taken his gun that morning, but at the time he thought they were only visiting with a client. He made a mental note not to leave it at home in the future, even if they only went grocery shopping. When you were with Sherlock Holmes, cases had a way of dropping on you unexpectedly.

They waited until the boat had pushed off from the jetty before making their move. John sent a quick text to Lestrade to alert him of the possible hostage situation. They crept through the aisles of benches and John made a mental note of the footsteps echoing around them. Margaret and someone else in the captain's cabin. Two men on the roof. At least two more somewhere in the back, one probably with Helen. John's military senses were on full alert now.

They came upon a first guard standing by the stairs, lighting a cigarette. John snuck behind him and actually managed to get him in a choke hold before he could make a sound. He dragged him backwards behind the small drinks bar, and Sherlock gave him a somewhat impressed look, eyebrows raised. John couldn't help it, he felt momentarily smug. However, that also made him careless for a crucial second, and he missed the steps behind him until he saw Sherlock's eyes widen and large arms gripped his torso.

His assailant threw him against the wall where John connected painfully with several picture frames shattering under him. Sherlock jumped up with two bottles from the bar and crashed them against the man, who managed to get up an arm in time. It was still relatively dark, but the glass left several bloody gashes, making the man cry out. John was watching for an opening, hearing heavy footsteps above them. No doubt they'd be surrounded in seconds.

He pushed off forcefully and slammed his body into the brutish figure, tackling him to the ground. He heard a dull sound as the man's head connected with something, hard. He sat up and saw he was out cold, so he quickly scrambled off him; Sherlock was already by his side and he grabbed the hand offered to him and let himself be dragged to his feet. For a moment, John anchored himself in holding the hand, locking eyes, controlling his breathing. Sherlock nodded.

They ran from the bar towards the staircase that led to the upper part of the boat and saw another man's feet appear in front of them on the stairs in the top hatch. Just as John got ready to defend himself again, they heard the sound of a helicopter. Bright light streamed through the windows and openings around them, and they heard steps and shouting. The legs on the stairs thankfully retreated, ready to meet the threat from above instead.

From just next to them they heard a different sound – someone gagged trying to call for attention. Sherlock quickly said "John," and pulled him towards the doors leading to the toilets. Just as he reached for the door handle, a man opened the door from inside, looking startled.

Sherlock took an automatic step backwards and suddenly, things seemed to move in slow motion. The man reached behind him and pulled out a gun. John didn't think, he just reacted. He hooked a leg around Sherlock's, buckling his knees and bringing him to the ground, making space. He pushed the hand with the gun away before the man could even move and rammed the palm of his hand squarely into his nose. He felt bone crunch and blood spurt. He quickly used the man's disorientation to disarm him, and finally conked him in the head with the butt of his gun, knocking him to the ground, out cold.

Adrenaline coursed through him, and he stood completely rigid, gun levelled at the man's head, without even being fully aware of what he'd done. He swallowed heavily and saw two things. One was a blonde woman, bound and gagged, sitting on the floor inside the bathroom, staring at him with wide eyes. The other was Sherlock, slowly getting to his feet, breathing heavily and looking more alive than ever, his pupils blown wide, his eyes burning with a voracious fire.

John dropped the gun and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, pushed him against the doorframe and kissed him. It was rough and quick, lasting only a second, just to allow himself to feel that he was safe and alive not getting shot point-blank in the chest. Sherlock let out a startled noise and gaped at him, his eyes even wider than before. He kept blinking, but John had no time to revel in the fact that for once in his life, he had rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless. He let go of him and quickly stepped over the slumped guard and kneeled by the woman. He was trying to get his heartbeat under control. "Helen Fletcher, I presume," he asked with a lightness he definitely didn't feel, gently removing her gag. The woman still stared at him but nodded. He pulled out a pocket knife to cut free her taped hands and feet, and helped her stand. They heard the police siren above them and heavy footfalls, shouting and shooting.

Helen was wobbly on her legs. "You better stay down here whilst they're doing their thing. Stay safe," John soothed her, urging her to sit down on the closed toilet seat inside the small cubicle. "Are you okay?" His voice was now softer, switching to doctor mode. He glanced at her pupils, looked for obvious injuries. Helen relaxed a little and nodded. "I'm fine, I'm okay," she said.

"Breathe normally," John said and placed one of her hands onto her chest and another on her belly. "If you feel that you're going to panic, breathe slowly into your hand and focus on the movement of your belly, okay?" Helen nodded again and seemed okay for the moment. John turned to Sherlock, who was regarding him with an unreadable expression. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." His voice was low and gravelly. "Are _you_?"

John nodded curtly. They weren't out of the woods yet. Sherlock understood. He grabbed the unconscious man by his arms and John grabbed his legs. Without speaking, they dragged him over to the bar and Sherlock brandished a pair of handcuffs from one of his pockets. John pulled the other man from earlier over to them and looked up at Sherlock, who quickly cuffed them to a railing together. "I'm not even going to ask," John muttered. His heart was still beating fast, and a sudden rush of pure feeling escaped their tight hold in John's chest. He gulped in a pained breath. His soldier mode was definitely failing him. He wasn't sure whether he was having a delayed panic reaction or whether it was just the emotional tumble of kissing Sherlock—

"We're at a crime scene. I came prepared," Sherlock stated calmly and lithely stepped over the bodies to John. He looked at him and instantly frowned in concern. He grabbed John's shoulders and searched his eyes. "You are not all right."

John was struggling to get his breathing under control. "No," he pressed out, "I thought you…" He quickly reconsidered his words. This wasn't the place or the time. "Never mind, we need—"

And Sherlock moved and his hand slipped around John's neck, cool and firm. He pressed his forehead against John's again. His voice was quiet and calming. "John. Calm down. Breathe. The police are up there, we're fine. _I'm fine_ ," he added a little quieter, slowly shaking his head. John was barely able to make out his eyes, but he sounded full of disbelief. "Why you would… I don't really…" he broke off. Long fingers were rubbing soothing circles on John's neck, and he let his eyes fall closed and just listened to Sherlock's breathing. After a moment it helped slow his own down and he managed to feel more himself again.

His voice was a whisper when he mumbled "—okay," and he felt Sherlock draw in a breath, feeling it like a soft caress on his skin. Unfortunately, this also brought a wholly different angle of their current position to the forefront of his mind. A tremor of arousal surged through his body. The hand at the back of his neck had stilled and felt hot and heavy, pulling him in. The memory of the short, bruising kiss was still fresh, yet not nearly real enough. He slowly opened his eyes and saw Sherlock's expression, mirroring his own. His lips were slightly parted and John was overwhelmed with the _need_ Sherlock was radiating.

His last shred of conscious reason reminded him that Sherlock was never one to deny himself anything. He saw him move closer and felt the torment of his breath on his lips, and everything inside him was burning and screaming _Yes_ —

"Sherlock," John whispered, and he could taste his breath, feel his skin—"If we start, I won't be able to stop," he managed, his breath hitching in his throat.

If at all possible, Sherlock's eyes darkened even more at his words, and John understood, because the thought of just letting go and letting himself take him and knowing he wouldn't stop him was making him delirious with want. But the last bit of reason clawed his way back to the surface of his thoughts and it was as painful as seeing Sherlock draw back, dropping his hand, swallowing heavily; the decision was underscored by the sounds of weapon fire and shouting from above them. Sherlock blinked and shook himself a little. With anyone else, John might have been afraid that his rejection might be taken badly, make things awkward; but Sherlock had probably deduced the depth of his feelings quite thoroughly at this point and didn't seem as ashamed of his own openness as John had feared. He nodded, letting out a breath, his eyes coming back into focus, a grim determination on his face.

Without further ado, he turned around and John followed, telling himself that he would pay him back for his restraint tenfold later, even if he wasn't quite sure how yet.

They quickly took the stairs to the rooftop area. They ducked down a little, trying to survey the situation. There were benches all across the roof for tourists to sit. On one end of the boat, the police were already cuffing two men, but several of the officers were crouched behind the benches, guns out pointing towards the front of the ship. John looked around and saw shapes hiding behind and in the captain's cabin. He and Sherlock were somewhat caught in the middle.

Sherlock tugged on his jacket. He gestured towards the huddle of police officers and John spotted Greg Lestrade, who was making gestures for them to try and come over. Several shots rang out and they ducked their heads. Police were shouting for the thieves to drop their weapons. Suddenly Margaret's voice rang out. "Leave the ship or the hostage gets it! Leave now!"

John heard fear in her voice. She knew this was it, really, but wasn't willing to give up like that. John and Sherlock frowned at each other, thinking of Helen. Sherlock caught Lestrade's eyes. He shook his head, then nodded behind him down the stairs and gave him a thumb up. He let out a relieved breath when he saw the DI understood.

"The hostage is safe, Margaret, you lost your bargaining chip," he called out across the boat. His eyes quickly jumped to Sherlock again, who nodded emphatically. John muttered "we should invest in sign language classes."

Sherlock gave him a quick grin and John looked across the aisles of seats again. "Come on," he muttered and moved forward quickly towards the police's end of the boat. Time to get out of here. They'd done their detecting and made sure Helen was all right, the rest of it was better left to actual professionals. And he and Sherlock had unfinished business back at Baker Street to take care of.

When a few more shots rang out, John was so focussed on keeping his head down that he didn't see the leg sticking out between the aisles until it was too late. He stumbled forward, caught himself badly on his tender shoulder and cried out in surprise. A man jumped up from where he'd been hiding, no doubt slowly creeping up behind the police. John struggled to his feet and immediately saw Sherlock locked in a fierce grapple with the ambusher. This man also held a gun, but was unable to point it at Sherlock. John tried to move around them to get a grip on the man's neck, but he was too quick and it was difficult to see. The flickering spotlight from the helicopter was casting stark shadows on everything. He heard Lestrade shout their names, but he was too far away and they couldn't possibly get a clear shot with John and Sherlock in the way. Finally, the man groaned in frustration and threw Sherlock off him with one great push. Sherlock landed with a crash on a bench. The brute rounded on John, raised his arm with the gun and John couldn't dive out of the way quickly enough, there wasn't any space to move, and his eyes widened in shock as the man got his bearings—

And Sherlock yelled his name more desperately than he'd ever heard him and jumped, and John felt the tall body connect with his; and he was lifted off his feet, registering the surprise in the other man's eyes as a shot rang out, he heard Lestrade shout again, but they fell, fell down much farther than just the rooftop would have allowed, and before they hit the water, John's head connected solidly with something and then everything went black.


	14. Drowned

**~~ One Breath 14: Drowned ~~**

AN: Anyone else dying from the UST? Well… the wait is over, friends. Sorry for the dramatic title, and sorry, I haven't written many scenes like this before, just trying things out… I really hope you like it. ;)

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock struggled, the water frothing all around him, churning and blinding. He kept a death grip on John's body; it was dragging him down, _why wasn't he swimming, why wasn't he helping?_ Sherlock dragged and pulled and kicked his feet with abandon, trying to reach the surface. He hadn't thought where they were standing, he had only seen John and a gun levelled straight at his chest and something had simply shortened out in his brain; and now they were under the sodding water _again_ ; and Sherlock remembered how he _hadn't made it_ last time and nearly drowned and now he couldn't, he wouldn't, because he dimly registered that there was something very wrong with the unresponsive, heavy body in his arms.

Finally, with a massive gasp, he broke the surface. He allowed himself one big gulp of air, quickly kicking and paddling, trying to fight the waves lapping in his face. He turned John so that he held him around the chest, keeping his chin above water with his hand. He was unconscious, and water ran freely from his mouth and nose, gripping Sherlock in a wild panic. He wasn't breathing.

He put a little distance between him and the unsteady belly of the boat, afraid it would catch him and drag him under again. He looked up and already saw lights searching the surface of the water. He shouted out, trying to wave, but he was unable to keep himself steady in the water with only one arm. Painful seconds passed during which he became unbearably aware of every sensation assaulting his body. John's weight was difficult to bear, their clothes were dragging them down and water was getting into his nose and mouth and he couldn't see…

Finally he heard something land in the water and the cries from above directed him to a large life ring bobbing on the waves near him. With a last big struggle, he launched himself at the ring, keeping John above the water as much as possible. He entangled his arms through the ring and kept a firm grip on John. He shouted, "quickly! He's drowning! Hurry!" Thankfully the people at the top were not entirely morons and pulled them up. Sherlock heard grunting and more shouting from Lestrade who was in front, holding and pulling the rope and swearing fiercely at the people behind him to _keep bloody pulling_.

When Sherlock finally lurched over the side of the ship, John still in his arms, he wasted no time. He dragged John a few feet away and fairly snarled at anyone who came too close. He laid him flat on his back and quickly lowered his lips to his friend's. With single-minded determination, he blocked out all other sensations around him and counted. And breathed, willing John to wake up. Compress the chest. Count. Lowered his head again, breathed.

He wouldn't let the panic take over. He couldn't. John hadn't let him down at the swimming pool and now he had to do the same. He leaned in again, and after another breath, he finally felt John respond and splutter as gushes of water were coughed up and Sherlock felt a huge weight lift of his chest at once.

He was glad he was wet all over because he would never have admitted to feeling a few hot tears spilling across his freezing cheeks at the sight of John finally breathing again. He let John take another few raspy breaths and faintly saw a bruise develop on his head where he must have hit it on the way into the water. But it didn't matter at all and Sherlock ignored the police around them, ignored Lestrade's voice, ignored the helicopters and the bright spotlight and simply gathered John in his arms and held him in a fierce grip. He felt John's breathing still ragged against him, and two wet arms came up and around him and held onto him just as tightly.

"John," he said.

"I'm okay," John coughed. "I'm all right." He pulled back a little to look Sherlock in the eye and Sherlock released his death grip a little. John looked him over, but there was nothing wrong with him and John seemed relieved. "You're okay. I thought I heard a… you're fine," John managed.

"Shot went wide," Sherlock rasped, and John nodded. "Good."

"This is becoming a bad habit." Sherlock managed a smile, and John laughed with a desperate and befuddled look on his face; he was leaning heavily on one arm, but threw the other around Sherlock's neck and pulled him closer for a brief, fierce hug before they were caught up in the police bustle around them.

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock went to retrieve his coat from their stakeout spot. He was glad to have at least one dry piece of clothing. When he came back to the police scene, he spotted John sitting on the back of an ambulance. He had taken off his soaked jumper and t-shirt and had one of those odious orange blankets thrown over his shoulders. He was answering questions from a paramedic who was checking his lungs with a stethoscope. For a moment, Sherlock just stood there, watching, letting his brain process and catch up with the last few hours.

The last coherent decision he remembered making about John had been this morning. He'd decided to pretend everything was as usual and wait to see how John felt about all of it. Well, if today, especially the last hour, was any indication, that question had been answered quite thoroughly. And Sherlock had apparently been willing; he felt a slight stab of disappointment at his own lack of composure, but he wasn't one to agonize over such things. The truth of the matter was out now.

He recalled his thoughts about relationships. In only one day, John had turned them completely upside down. He thought of some of the _reasons_ for being with someone that he'd observed – sex, loneliness, societal conventions – and none of them seemed to fit on what he was experiencing right now. And what about people being unsuited? Sherlock had never particularly fancied himself a person _suited_ to _any_ other person, period. But John was one of the few people he _trusted_ , and perhaps that was enough to explain this?

He had also believed that John would be sentimental and expecting things, but the only expectation he'd seen in his eyes earlier had been decidedly one Sherlock didn't mind at all. Frankly, he wanted to devour him, pull him closer and simply find out what happened next, he wanted to let go of his burning feeling clenching his chest and for once, he wanted to be thoroughly distracted. This _want_ … it was difficult to acknowledge. Sherlock had rarely been more terrified of anything.

He felt another person approach and turned. Lestrade walked up next to him, looking tired. He nodded at Sherlock and stood by him for a moment, watching him. Finally, he said, "so, are you finally going to tell him how you feel?"

Sherlock's head snapped around and he regarded Lestrade with a small frown. He didn't appreciate other people getting nosey and involved. Especially when it came to things he didn't like being honest about.

"Oh, don't gimme that look," Lestrade smiled wryly. "I've known you long enough. You may not be aware of it but you're practically wearing your heart on your sleeve."

Sherlock, personally, was of the opinion that nobody wore his heart less on his sleeve than him. He made a point of being rude and unreadable, after all. "No need to insult me, Detective Inspector," he grumbled.

Lestrade laughed but didn't relent. "I've never seen you cling to someone so desperately before. And I've seen you when you were high, mind you," he mused.

They stood for a moment in silence, watching John. Lestrade finally sighed. "Sherlock, it's obvious from the way he looks at you. God knows why, but he's mad about you."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said quietly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "So will you please put the poor man out of his misery?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a smile. "Yes, I suppose I will," he said, and walked off, ignoring Lestrade's wry grin.

With a few long strides, Sherlock was over by the ambulance. John saw him and got up. He gestured to the rescue blanket on his shoulders. "They keep insisting on these bloody blankets," he joked. "But at least they help with the drying." As if to illustrate, he rubbed the blanket through his damp hair a little more before settling it back on his shoulders.

Sherlock's lips quirked a smile. John Watson should earn a prize for pretending things were _normal_ , when in fact they were _mental_. He looked as if this was just another ordinary day – after nearly drowning, being shot at, and severely stretching the definition of the word 'flatmate'. Sherlock let his eyes roam John's bare chest for a second, remembering how he'd looked at him on the boat when he said he wouldn't be able to stop. John was really a man of very intense feeling. And who knew – apparently, so was he.

John was blushing a little, but steadily kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock's, trying to look nonchalant. But Sherlock knew him better. "You okay?" he asked.

John breathed in deeply and nodded once. "Yeah. I'm fine. No harm done," he said but then sneezed violently. He drew the blanket a bit closer around him, shivering a little. "Almost."

Sherlock frowned and vaguely gestured at the sizeable bruise on John's head. "Uh, sorry about the…" He broke off.

"Oh. Yes. It's okay, really. Good move. Better than getting shot," John said unsteadily, his façade crumbling a little.

Sherlock managed a tight smile as he remembered something. "You said you would always jump in front of a bullet for me."

John's cheeks got a bit more colour into them at this sudden pronouncement. "Uh. Yes. Yes, I did."

"I said that I would have done the same. It was a hypothetical statement at the time." Sherlock paused and pursed his lips briefly. "I guess I was right."

John's eyes widened. Sherlock let out a breath. He couldn't tell him how he felt, because he hadn't quite figured that out himself or, for that matter, what words applied to it. Not yet. But whatever John's feelings, Sherlock, whether he wanted to or not, returned them. Without thinking about it, he had accidentally proven it beyond a doubt.

Interrupting these profound thoughts before they got out of hand, John sneezed again.

"You're freezing. Let's go home," Sherlock said, his lips pulling up in a smile.

John huffed a laugh as if to ask _and you're not?_ He grabbed his clothes. "Yeah. Okay."

They stepped away from the ambulance and Sherlock turned, his eyes seeking Lestrade. He was still standing a little away, talking to Sergeant Donovan. She sent him a thoughtful look, something definitely new on her face where Sherlock was concerned. Sherlock ignored it and nodded at Lestrade, who gave him a nod and a small knowing smile in return – they'd be around another time for statements, for now they needed to get home and out of (or rather the remainder of) their wet clothes. The thought suddenly made a surge of possessiveness grip his chest, and several ideas presented themselves to him how to accomplish that—

He felt John's steps falter a bit and he noticed he had involuntarily put his arm around him. But John didn't say anything, he just smiled; so Sherlock left his arm where it was and tightened it a little, hoping to get some warmth into John. Together they made their way back to the street to look for a taxi.

 **~~ SH ~~**

John clambered into the taxi and pulled the orange rescue blanket tighter around his shoulders. He really needed to get home and get warm before he dealt with anything else right now. Sherlock sat next to him and the taxi sped away. For a moment, everything was as usual; Sherlock was staring straight ahead, his face a mask, a dark silhouetted profile, the ridiculous cupid's bow of his lips catching the street light. John blinked. And everything was completely upside down, because not an hour ago, John had kissed that cupid's bow; he had felt the desire rippling through _this body_ sitting now like a statue next to him as surely as it had through his own; had told Sherlock in no uncertain terms how things could continue if he wanted them to.

And as John looked and wondered if he'd imagined it all, Sherlock's eyes flickered to him and he smiled. "You're thinking too loud," the deep baritone murmured. Then he frowned a little. "John… I'm not exactly… _good_ at this sort of thing," he said hesitantly, looking at his hands in his lap.

John didn't know what to say to that, really. Definitely uncharted territory, right there. After a moment's silence, he managed, "to be honest with you, neither am I, right now." And then he shivered some more and sniffed.

Sherlock's face finally relaxed in the face of such a pathetic display and huffed a laugh. "Come here," he said, rolling his eyes. He opened up his arm and lifted his coat a little in invitation. John's brain stumbled incoherently over itself, but his body seemed to be on autopilot due to the cold. He shuffled over and leaned in and let himself be enveloped by the arm and half the coat. He sighed in content.

For the rest of the ride, he stayed where he was, and suddenly, speaking seemed entirely superfluous. It wasn't as if anything had been magically sorted, John thought. But for now, and perhaps when they got home, they could give each other what they wanted, what they needed, and worry about everything else later. A warm anticipation settled in his stomach, slowly turning into heat with every move of Sherlock's body next to his.

By the time they reached Baker Street, John was pretty sure he had progressed beyond conscious thought and now consisted only of needs: get warm, get dry, be close to Sherlock. They shuffled along the pavement and stepped inside 221B, and John took a moment to let the warm comfort of home wash over him. They went up to their flat, John's tiredness ever so gently evaporating the last of his defences. Once they were upstairs, Sherlock carefully closed the door and removed his coat and sodden jacket.

And then the reality of the situation suddenly occurred to John and he just stood there, watching Sherlock in the mirror undo a few buttons of his shirt, his mouth becoming dry. He had told him that once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop; and now there was nothing preventing that. Sherlock glanced up from underneath his lashes and became still. He watched John watching him and John finally turned back and closed the impossible distance between them with deliberate steps.

For the first time since the previous night, John allowed himself to really _look_ at Sherlock. His damp shirt clung to him, his curls were matted and tousled, and there was an expression on his face… John felt his heart speed up and his cheeks getting warm. He saw Sherlock's eyes widen, no doubt detecting every minor detail of his physical reaction. Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed heavily. His pupils darkened with undisguised desire. It was a sight John never would have dreamed he would get to see. Only now did he realize how much he craved it. His skin tingled as he silently vowed to make Sherlock look at him like that again and again until he believed it.

"Curious," Sherlock whispered. He sounded breathless, absolutely enthralled.

"What?"

"You," he admitted simply, looking bemused, one eyebrow raised quizzically. "I didn't know—" he stopped, then tried again. "Something is different now. I didn't anticipate that your mere presence could suddenly make me—" he trailed off, releasing a somewhat unsteady breath through his nostrils. His eyes searched John's.

The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop them. "You can have more than my mere presence, if you like." His voice was heavy and quiet in the air between them, and Sherlock's eyes widened another fraction and John was pretty sure he stopped breathing.

And then there was nothing left to say. Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders, slowly, deliberately pulling the rescue blanket off them. He stepped forward, his hands and chest and leg gently pushing him against the closed door until there was no space left between them. For the first time, John really noticed how tall Sherlock was in comparison to him. He lifted his head a little to keep eye-contact and what he saw made more heat pool in his abdomen. Sherlock's eyes were blazing with pale fire. He wore an expression of utter want and complete focus at the same time. He looked as if he was handling the most valuable piece of evidence in a case, stripping it to its core, revealing its secrets. John had never felt so naked before someone. His eyes began taking in everything, burning each feature into his memory forever; the dark curls tumbling over Sherlock's forehead, the mesmerising eyes with their never definable colours, the flushed skin on his pale cheeks, the slightly parted lips. He felt the hot breath on his skin, mingling with his own.

The hands moved slowly upwards from John's shoulders, slim fingers leaving a hot trail on John's skin. John's thoughts went briefly to the rather ugly scar on his shoulder, but Sherlock paid it absolutely no heed, his eyes still fixed on John's. His hands now moved up his neck, and John felt trapped; a thrill of danger shot through him, his heart racing. Excruciatingly slowly, Sherlock's hands finally completed their journey and held John's head, and his thumb ran gently over his cheek. His eyes narrowed, examining, taking in every detail. Something inside John rebelled at the thought of being so passive, to just let this happen to him when he actually wanted to throw himself at Sherlock and take him apart with everything he knew. But something between them had slowed time to a crawl, reduced to the movement of Sherlock's fingers on his skin, brushing away the seconds. His brain was slowly being turned into incoherent gibberish under the scrutiny of those impossible eyes, a mantra of _I can't believe this is happening; this is bloody Sherlock, what the hell happened?_ running amok in his mind.

And just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, Sherlock finally leaned in and pressed his lips to John's. Relief flooded through him, like a man dying of thirst finally allowed a drink. John melted under Sherlock's touch, his lips responding without conscious thought. Sherlock's mouth was warm against him and he felt light-headed with the sensation of soft lips caressing his. He finally drew in a shaky breath through his nose, his senses filled with Sherlock. John's hands wandered tentatively to Sherlock's waist, slowly encircling his body and drawing him closer. The kiss began slowly, testing, learning, no inebriation diluting the experience this time. John felt as if his heart could burst.

And suddenly, something shifted; perhaps it was his hands tightening their hold in Sherlock's shirt, pressing his hips closer; perhaps it was Sherlock's fingers moving through his hair—but he felt his lips part to get closer, and the kiss became hungrier, accelerating beyond mere exploration. And John understood suddenly that kissing Sherlock could not possibly quench his need for him but would only increase it, make it more desperate with each stroke of his tongue and each movement of his hands.

It was not just him. Sherlock made a desperate noise in his throat and John heard it reverberate through him; the hands were now on his body, caressing his bare skin, and John's arousal became undeniable as Sherlock's thigh pressed into him. Every single nerve ending in his body was on fire. Without thinking, his hands moved to the front of Sherlock's shirt and he began fumbling with the buttons. The sounds around them had changed from gentle breathing to noticeable groans and sighs and whimpers; and then Sherlock shifted, and his hips pressed against him just _there_ and there was no question that he felt the same. That realization nearly took John's breath away and he had to pull away from Sherlock for a moment to gasp for air.

Suddenly, the knowledge that nothing would stop them shot through him. The promise of how far they could go was threatening to overwhelm him with a need he didn't know he was capable of experiencing. Sherlock did not pause. His nimble fingers impatiently took over for John. He began trailing kisses down his neck as he unbuttoned his own shirt, and John couldn't help another small moan escaping his swollen lips. He felt Sherlock grin on his skin, and when the shirt finally was worked free of Sherlock's trousers, hanging open, John found that his hands automatically slipped under it and were now touching the bare skin on his back, soft under his fingertips. It was enough to undo him completely. Sherlock began working his way back from his neck across his face back to his lips.

"Sherlock—" John muttered between heavy breaths. "Sherlock, wait."

Sherlock stopped, his mouth hovering over John's mouth, his eyes glazed over feverishly. John had no idea what he could say. All he knew was that he wanted this man way too much, too quickly, and he couldn't process it at all.

"We need to… slow down," he brought out between shaky breaths.

"No, we don't," Sherlock said and began dropping feather-light kisses all over his face.

"I need a shower," John murmured, finding it difficult to voice the chaos in his head, desperately grasping for reasons.

He felt Sherlock smile. "We both do," he murmured, his voice deep and suggestive, his breath tingling hot on John's lips. _God_ , he wanted this so badly, yet—

He shivered in anticipation, but one last shred of _this is necessary_ held out. "Are you _sure_ about this?" He pulled back a little to look into Sherlock's eyes. He put a hand on Sherlock's chest, willing him to understand, and felt a thundering heartbeat under his palm.

Sherlock looked pained with impatience, his eyes boring into John with a ferocious honesty. "John. I don't even know what that means anymore," he said, and John felt he couldn't breathe. "But I know that I can't stop now. And neither can you," Sherlock said in a throaty whisper, and he leaned in to kiss him again.

Whatever else John may have needed to hear at that point was lost in incoherent sounds of pleasure and sweet pain and longing as they stumbled their way out of the rest of their clothes and towards the bathroom.

 **~~ SH ~~**

It was different. In his occasional daydreams, John had always thought that being with Sherlock like this would feel different because he was, well, a man. He'd expected to be at least a little weirded out by the physical side of it – had made his peace with that assumption, really; but it turned out that it wasn't so different when it came to their bodies. Desire was desire, he learned with delighted surprise as Sherlock's body came completely undone beneath his hands and lips. That was not it. It was different because it was _Sherlock_.

John felt a little out of his depth – okay, he felt _a lot_ out of his depth. He'd had sex in different varieties and places before, including showers, and they all had one thing in common. There was usually a certain levity afterwards; a common bond of ' _we've just done this_ ' that he thought was the same for everyone. Even if the sex wasn't spectacular, even if he and the girl weren't in love – it was still sex and that usually made people happy and relaxed. He understood the biological and chemical aspect of this, of course, so even if this was _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ he expected at least some of the oxytocin and endorphins to get through to him.

But things were definitely different. The sex _was_ , in fact, more than spectacular, and John knew he was on his way to being very much in love; and yet afterwards, John was standing in the tiny bathroom of 221B Baker Street, drying himself with a towel, gazing at Sherlock with worry. His fingers were wrinkly, and he had honestly no idea how long they'd spent under the shower together. Even after they had both been sated, they simply had leaned against the wall, tangled into each other, letting the hot water soothe them, the steam mingling with their exhausted breaths. Every trace of the cold Thames water had been washed away and replaced with prickling heat. The afterglow seemed to make Sherlock's skin even more irresistible than it already was, and John couldn't stop touching him. He buried his face in the nape of Sherlock's neck and let his hands roam his body, listening to Sherlock's breaths slowing down. Sherlock pressed a few stray kisses on his hair, his neck, whispering his name. But eventually, he stopped.

When they finally turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, Sherlock was quiet, his eyes full of _something_ that John hoped very intently wasn't regret. John usually made jokes when he was with a girl who seemed self-conscious or shy; he knew it would be better if he made them giggle, make them feel at ease. He liked for things to be relaxed and fun after sex, and he knew he wasn't a half-bad lover, experience being a dependable teacher. But that had been the previous John, who took normal girls on predictable dates and who was _nice_ in bed and who made people _giggle_. _This_ John was the one who went on midnight chases with a madman, got himself shot and kissed said madman after punching someone in the face to protect him. This John suddenly found himself having sex with the most gorgeous person he'd ever met and his normal way of doing things became completely inadequate to deal with it; yes, this John was certainly more than a little out of his depth.

He tied the towel around his waist and caught Sherlock staring at him, still not saying a word. They stood close, their towel-wrapped hips almost touching, and John marvelled at the fact that they'd been so intimate and yet it didn't take away anything from the mystery this man was to him. Sherlock's eyes wandered over John's features, dissecting him for information. His expression was unreadable, and John wished he would just smile and say _something_.

"So what happens now?" Sherlock asked.

 _Oh God_ , John thought, _I take it back_. What a loaded question. He sighed, trying not to notice the hint of… was it sadness in Sherlock's voice? Or was he mocking John? Had the experience been so disappointing for him? Had he expected more? Did he feel ashamed for giving in to emotions? Or did he now realise that the whole sex thing wasn't really _his area_ , after all?

John swallowed heavily. _What happens now is I will continue to fall in love with you and I will kiss you some more and then drag you to bed where I will wrap myself in you to make sure this was real._ "Well, I'm going to put some clothes on, for starters," he said lightly, cursing himself inwardly. His hand reached out involuntarily to rest on Sherlock's hips. He felt Sherlock's eyes jump down to his hand, a small frown appearing between the delicate brows. John felt a stab of worry and quickly pulled his hand back. He really shouldn't presume that just because they— _had been at each other like starved animals_ , his brain offered, and John groaned—well, just because of _that_ , he shouldn't presume he was allowed to touch Sherlock now. Come to think of it, he probably shouldn't presume _anything at all_ , judging from Sherlock's expression.

"Good. Okay," Sherlock managed and pressed his lips tightly together.

 _Well then_ , John thought, and sighed. He didn't really know what to say. Despite feeling thoroughly shagged, he still _wanted_ Sherlock in all other possible ways. But perhaps he shouldn't pressure him; this was all pretty new to him, too. And he probably shouldn't come off as too needy, because that seemed like the kind of thing to thoroughly repel him. He had to tread carefully now. So he merely nodded and quietly left the bathroom.

He made his way upstairs quickly and put on some comfortable clothes. The feeling of dry fabric on his skin felt soothing and reassuring, and he felt calmer than he had all evening. He was incredibly weary, what with the case, almost drowning, the late hour and the bone-shattering release from under the shower to finish him off. He stared longingly at his bed, but that wouldn't do today. He needed to be around Sherlock, if just to be sure he was still there and the whole shower scene hadn't just been a figment of his imagination.

The sound of the violin began drifting upstairs, sealing his decision to leave his bed behind. He went back downstairs to the sitting room and found Sherlock standing by the window, looking out and playing. He was dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown, the soft fabric only loosely disguising the slender body John had discovered beneath it. It was half past two in the morning and the yellow street lamps cast the only light into the dark of the flat. Sherlock was silhouetted against it in an otherworldly picture of perfection. John merely looked at him from the door a little while, listening to whatever haunting melody he was playing, and sighed. Finally, he settled on the sofa, still not sure whether Sherlock had even noticed him coming back. He lay down and nestled into the pillows, positioned so he could keep looking at the figure by the window; and the image of Sherlock's wet body wrapped around him superimposed itself on his dimming vision. But he did not manage to keep his eyes open for long, the exhaustion finally taking its toll. The music washed over him like a lullaby, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.


	15. What we want

**One Breath 15: What we want**

 **AN: Thank you all for your kind reviews, they make me so happy and are so motivating! Sorry for the teasing, we're nearly there now. I love writing these two, hehe.**

 **~~ SH ~~**

Sherlock was standing by the window, absentmindedly playing something. He had no idea what it was; he just let his mind drift and his fingers and bow arm continued pretty much on their own. He heard John come in at some point. Then he heard John's soft breathing even out as he fell asleep on the sofa. He didn't even turn around. He would never admit it, but he wasn't sure how to act toward John now. He was rather in the middle of working that out, as it were.

It had all started so simple. Being flatmates was good; going to crime scenes with John was good. It was definitely more fun than going on his own. A lot of things were still boring and unbearably dull, but John, oddly enough, wasn't. And then John killed for him. And was willing to get blown up for him. And then they'd _joked_ about it! It had never crossed Sherlock's mind that anyone could feel so attached to him; moreover he had never thought he'd meet someone as fundamentally crazy as he was. The only difference was, thought Sherlock, was that John was polite and better at hiding it. Also, somehow, John tolerated him.

And Sherlock, so determined never to let feelings interfere, had gotten attached right back. Suddenly, all of the small, unimportant moments of the last few weeks just came together, one after the other, into a big, inevitable puzzle. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what the final picture would be yet, but he'd seen glimpses of it. But there was John, who had gone from merely tolerating him to kissing him to making him wild with his _skin and his eyes and his hands, pressing him against the tiled wall…_

Sherlock blinked a few times, clearing his vision, and realised after a moment that he had turned around and was now looking at John. His hands had begun coaxing different melodies of the violin, the song becoming something forlorn and full of yearning. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sentimentality of it all and abruptly put the violin aside.

This was exactly the problem. John was sentimental, and he'd be expecting things from him now – that was how these things went, right? And he'd made Sherlock sentimental, too. He'd distract him from the Work. He'd expect him to hold his hand in public or something ridiculous and sleep with him and he'd want Sherlock to listen to him and to commit to him and he'd be jealous…

The puzzle in his mind showed him a half-completed image of their life together; sharing a bed, chasing criminals, making out on the couch, both of them being infuriatingly annoying to the whole of Scotland Yard, John complaining about his toxic experiments, and Sherlock making it up to him in ingeniously new ways. And _there_ it was, Sherlock thought. This came too easy to him now. He was clearly a goner. Because all of the abhorring things that people did in relationships suddenly didn't seem so terrible anymore. And committing to John really wasn't an issue as he had no intentions of ever committing to anyone else _anyway_ ; and John was already jealous _anyway_.

A small voice in his head reminded Sherlock that _he'd_ been the one to complain about the nurse and the bloody Labrador of all things and, okay, perhaps he was _a little bit_ jealous whenever he didn't have John's undivided attention, and of course John wasn't _really_ completely stupid and had picked up on it. As it stood, Sherlock felt he should no longer be surprised that this future had become so appealing to him. But he was still surprised at how easy it was to imagine by now.

However, there was one difference to consider: those images contained a happy, relaxed and confident John. He looked at John, and it occurred to him that he had looked completely lost in the bathroom earlier, and Sherlock wanted to ask _why_? John had just _stood_ there, for crying out loud, looking at him with his big eyes, suddenly afraid to touch him. Sherlock couldn't figure out what had happened from one minute to the next. Had _he_ somehow missed something? Was there a _secret code_ that lovers were supposed to adhere to and he, Sherlock Holmes, had never bothered to learn it? He felt like he was back at the hospital, staring holes into a sleeping John Watson _. I know you used to be cock-sure and confident with all of your inane girlfriends, why are you lost now? Isn't this second nature to you by now?_ I _should be the one who's lost and confused._

He wanted confident John back. The John who kissed him after punching someone (and Sherlock, of all people, was actually a little disconcerted by how much that had turned him on); the John who got caught kissing someone (or more) behind the school gym and who obviously felt that Sherlock could be _someone like that_ for him, too. The John who made Sherlock stop thinking, who stopped _him_ feeling confused. Instead, John had snuck into the room, afraid to even say anything to him. And that would not do.

 _Screw the bigger picture_ , Sherlock thought. He pressed his lips together in determination. And decided to stop agonizing about their relationship for now. First, he had to get his John back.

Data was the issue. Sherlock needed more input, more information. He very much recognized the irony of the fact that these infuriating questions seemed to only occur to him when John slept. Earlier, in the bathroom… well. At first he was thoroughly distracted by John for obvious reasons, and that had been good, that had been rather excellent, in fact. After, there had been a moment when he could have asked, but there was something in John's eyes when he looked at him that had stunned him into terrified silence.

Sherlock walked over to the couch and sat down next to it on the floor. He placed one arm gently over John, his palm on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. He watched John's eyelids flutter a little, but he didn't wake up. Almost without noticing, he began counting the beats under his hand, whilst memories and scenarios flitted at lightning speed through his brain, putting it all together.

 **~~ SH ~~**

The next thing Sherlock knew was that all of a sudden it was noticeably brighter. He blinked sleepily and lifted his head, but there was something heavy on it. As he moved, he felt fingers slip gently from his hair and a hand dropped clumsily onto his shoulder. Sherlock froze and took in the situation. His head had rested on John's chest, where he must have fallen asleep several hours ago. His arm was still draped protectively over John, and he felt from the gentle rising and falling under his arm that John was still asleep.

John's arm must have snaked around him during the night and his fingers had tangled into Sherlock's hair. His heart gave a little lurch at the thought of such a possessive gesture. He looked at John with his sleep-mussed hair and his comfortable pyjama pants and his t-shirt; clothes he could so easily be peeled out of at a moment's notice—

Before he could question his own motives, Sherlock found that he was on his knees, leaning over John and running a hand through his hair. His other hand had inexplicably wandered under the hem of John's shirt, tentatively brushing the soft skin of his side, Sherlock's wrist just barely brushing one teasingly protruding hipbone.

Sherlock grazed his thumb gently over John's skin, his other hand continuing to brush through the short hair. John was taking entirely too long to wake up from such attentions, Sherlock decided. Especially for an ex-army man. He decided to help things along a bit. He leaned in and began to place very light kisses on John's neck, breathing his smell of shower, pyjamas and just something _John_ that he couldn't quite define. Some part of his busy brain suggested that after last night this was, perhaps, not the best way to tackle the elephant in the room. John would probably want to talk. But _talking_ was _boring_ , especially when he could touch and _breathe_ and _taste_ John instead.

He felt John shift, his breathing becoming more alert. He raised his head from John's neck to look at two dark blue eyes, heavy with sleep, blinking at him. Sherlock's lips quirked up in a soft smile. If he could wake up every day like this – perhaps on a bed instead of on the floor, but still – he'd consider it a marked improvement, he decided. He might even sleep a bit more if it meant that he got to feel this strange mixture of contentment and elation simply from waking John. He was being far less strict with himself on account of just having woken up, and... that was surprisingly acceptable. Once again, he marvelled at what John had done to change his mind on things he considered _dealt with_. First sex, and now sleep. It was a little startling, really. But the good kind of startling.

John's eyes widened a fraction as he took in their position. "Hello," he mumbled uncertainly, taking in the hand on his chest and looking a bit bewildered at Sherlock's face so close to his.

"John," Sherlock said, and he felt a warmth in his voice that wasn't there often.

A very becoming blush crept up on John's cheeks. Sherlock was about to comment on it when his mobile rang. John's eyes flickered to the desk. Sherlock ignored it and continued to stare at John, who raised an eyebrow in question. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, blocked out the sound of the mobile, and focussed on the colours in John's eyes instead. His right hand was still resting intimately over John's hipbone, and he began moving his thumb over the soft skin there again. He felt John react ever so slightly, a small tremor that went through his entire body and sent chills of anticipation through Sherlock. John blinked quickly and his lips parted like he wanted to say something, but then he pressed them together sharply, searching Sherlock's face. Thinking, hard. He could almost hear him. _Do I ask about last night? Or do I simply let him go on?_ Sherlock felt a rush of adrenaline course through him. He'd always been able to manipulate people quite well, but this was something entirely different. This was pleasant, and he was doing it because he _wanted_ it and it felt heady to admit that.

John licked his lips and Sherlock's eyes flickered down to follow the progress of the tip of his tongue. And then his bloody mobile rang again. His eyes went back to John's, whose lips quirked up a little and he sighed, and Sherlock had never heard such resignation coupled with such soft longing combined in one sound before. He felt pretty sure John would have let him continue whatever he had been about to do.

Feeling frustrated, Sherlock jumped up and stalked to the desk, grabbing his phone.

"Yes?" he almost shouted, hoping he could discourage whoever it was from ever calling him again.

The voice on the other end was sobbing. After a few messy sentences, he recognized their recent client, Frederick or something. And then the things the sobbing voice said came together and Sherlock paled a little. He looked over to John, but John at some point had gotten up from the couch and had grabbed his own mobile out of his jacket. He was frowning at it.

"I'll be there as fast as I can," Sherlock promised and hung up. He turned to John. "It's Helen. Get dressed."

"Sherlock," John began, looking worried.

"No time, John, I'll explain in the cab," he said, and went to his room to get dressed, but John followed him.

"Margaret Fletcher is dead," he announced in a voice like steel.

Sherlock took a breath, frowning, putting the picture together. Helen's mother. Arrested the night before. Smuggling operation. Outside help. Someone had taken revenge. And now Helen.

"How?" he asked, and absent-mindedly pulled out a new shirt from his dresser.

"Shot. Early this morning when they moved her. A _sniper_ ," John added, and his voice was sharp with anger now. Sherlock noted that any trace of sentimentality had been put aside for now. John was in what Sherlock thought of his soldier mode.

He held his gaze for a moment, feeling the anger bubble in himself to match. "Moriarty."

John nodded and gestured at his phone. "She told Lestrade she had… backup of some kind from someone. She didn't know names, but it would fit. He said she was willing to talk in exchange for leniency."

"A mistake," Sherlock said, shrugging out of his pyjama shirt and putting on the new shirt.

"No, a lifeline," John said, galled. "Moriarty would have killed her anyway, regardless whether she talked. She knew something. It was her last chance to use it."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. Then he finally nodded. "Do they know it's him?"

John let out an annoyed huff and waved his phone. "Haven't really had a chance to go into it," he said.

Sherlock sighed. "He's after Helen, too," he said, quietly. "We're going to Frederick's. He called me for help. She was released on bail and went to his place. The police must have decided she was more victim than offender, seeing as she was abducted and taken hostage. Now she's locked herself in the basement, threatening to kill herself— or something. It was hard to make out," Sherlock explained.

John looked bewildered. "But why would she kill herself? It's over. We just got her out."

Sherlock cocked his head and gave John a quick glance. "Exactly."

 **~~ SH ~~**

They sat in the cab, and John was texting back and forth with Lestrade, informing him about Helen. "There's no proof it's Moriarty," he merely commented at some point. Sherlock scoffed and John said nothing. They were quiet for the rest of the ride, both unsure what would await them. Sherlock hoped that the police wouldn't show up at Frederick's before them, because they usually messed things up. He was suddenly very glad he had John with him.

John was clenching his jaw at every red light that slowed them down, looking frustrated. Sherlock saw John's clenched fists. He felt an impulse to move and for a moment he had to battle it out in his mind. But then he remembered his resolution; he reached out with his hand and placed it, open in invitation, on the seat between them. John's eyes did not meet his, but after a moment he put his hand in Sherlock's. As their fingers laced together, some of the tension seemed to seep out from John, only to be replaced with more determination as he raised his chin and straightened his back.

When they arrived, Sherlock gave his hand a small squeeze, and John returned it before they let go and left the cab. Sherlock looked at him and nodded. "Battle stations," he said, and John nodded grimly as they made their way towards the house.

Frederick looked a mess. He had clearly been crying a lot and had only just managed to pull himself together again. Sherlock gave him a once over and filed away the details for later.

"Oh, thank God you're here, I just don't know what to do!" he cried and ushered them into the house. "I got a call early this morning, a-and they told me she'd been abducted—" Frederick began, but Sherlock cut him off immediately.

"Yes, we know all that, we were there," he said impatiently.

John held up a hand diplomatically. "Freddy, I don't know what they told you, but we know the gist of it. We were on the boat. Now where's Helen?"

His voice was much calmer than Sherlock knew he felt. But he was doing his special John Watson thing again, and it was working – Frederic calmed down a little. "You were…? Oh my God. Yes. Of course. Helen was released this morning and came here. She only told me bits of it, but she seemed _fine_!" Frederick was leading them to a staircase behind an open door, leading down into the cellar. "Then she got a-a message and suddenly, everything went wrong. She's down here," he explained, and tears threatened to spill again. "And she said she had to kill herself," he began breaking up and John put an arm around him.

"She has a gun," Sherlock stated.

Frederick sniffed and looked up, startled. "How did you know?"

"I deduced. Moriarty must have provided it." He exchanged a look with John, who nodded.

"Mori—who?"

But Sherlock was already on his way downstairs, not listening any more. He had to talk to Helen. After a small, rounded staircase, the cellar opened up into a well-proportioned laundry room, at the end of which was a closed door. In front of it sat the Labrador, looking as if he was guarding a treasury. Sherlock moved past him, and the dog sniffed him a little before it decided he posed no threat. Sherlock tried the handle, but it was locked. A startled gasp came from the other side.

"Helen?"

"Who's there?" the voice sobbed. Sherlock felt John and Frederick move up beside him. "It's Sherlock Holmes, I was there on the boat, remember?"

"Go away," she cried, sounding terrible.

"He can't touch you Helen," Sherlock said. "Whatever he told you, it's not true. We can protect you."

The crying began in earnest again. "What about my m-mother," she managed. "You couldn't protect her, could you?!"

Sherlock frowned. This was not good. He had questions to ask, but there was no way he was getting through to Helen now. Frederick made a move. "Helen, love, please let us help. We can—"

"GO AWAY," she shrieked, sounding completely panicked.

Frederick twitched and looked hurt. He shook his head at Sherlock and tears began spilling down his cheeks again. They were clearly both out of their element.

Sherlock felt a hand on his arm and saw John, looking tired but determined, nodding at him. "Let me try," he said quietly.

And Sherlock suddenly remembered their drunken conversation from what seemed ages ago now. When he told John that that's what he was there for: to talk and to empathise with people. He'd always thought John was just a clever actor, but now he knew better. The worry lines on John's face bore witness to how much John wanted this young woman to live.

Sherlock indicated to Frederick to move off, to give him some space. John was absent-mindedly petting the dog, who didn't show any indication of moving away from the door. Sherlock took Freddy upstairs and told him to make some tea for everyone and to wait for the police. Freddy seemed infinitely glad to be told what to do and left for the kitchen. Sherlock turned around again and took a few steps back into the cellar. He could tell that John had waited for them to leave, but something compelled him to go back until he heard the quiet voice float up to him. He leaned against the wall and listened.

 **~~ SH ~~**

John waited until the steps faded away. He took a deep breath and thought for a moment, rubbing Abby's head. The Labrador looked up at him with pleading, despondent eyes. He gave her a small smile.

"I sent them back upstairs," he said quietly, but he heard the sniffling behind the door pause and knew Helen could hear him. There was a scuffing sound on the door and John realised she probably sat with her back to it. He crouched down to be more on her level and gently kept petting Abby as she whined a little.

"Just me and Abby now," he said.

There was a short silence. "Who are you?"

"I'm John. I took out the guy who was with you in the toilets."

Another silence. "You punched him. And then you kissed that other guy." She sounded a little bewildered, as if she was sure she must be remembering that wrong.

John gave a dry chuckle. "That's right," he confirmed.

A sniff and a bit more shuffling. "Thanks," she managed.

"I'm glad we got you out okay," John said, unsure when he should broach the subject of the gun she currently held.

Helen sniffed again. "Well, it doesn't matter now," she said, and he heard tears creeping into her voice again. He instinctively felt that she needed to be a bit more distraction for now.

"You know, you should really come out," he said, and before she could rebuke him, added, "there's only so much puppy dog eyes a man can stand."

Another pause, and Abby chose this moment to whine again. John rubbed her ear again, nodding, as if to say, _well done, thank you dear._

"Abby?" Helen's voice cracked. Abby's tail began wagging a little and her ears perked up. She pressed her nose into the door a little, sniffing the door crack, whining sadly. John felt his throat clench a little at the forlorn expression on the lab's face, his heart softening.

"I think she's worried about you," John tried cautiously.

Helen gave a heartfelt sob at that. "I—I can't, Abby," Helen mumbled.

"Helen, what happened?"

He heard her sniff loudly and then she was quiet. John waited. She needed time. Finally, Helen spoke. "I didn't know someone else was involved. But mum—" she choked a little again and waited a moment. "She said something on the boat last night. Someone had organised it all behind th-the scenes," she stammered, trying to piece it together. "And she said he hated to be kept waiting, or something." Another loud sniff and a desperate sigh.

"His name is Jim Moriarty," John said. "We've met him, Sherlock and I. We've been up against him before."

Images from the pool flitted through his mind, and he felt ashamed and selfish, but he was desperately trying to understand if what was happening right now had anything to do with _them_ or if it was just a coincidence, running into Moriarty again.

"He—he killed my mother. I mean—he must have known we weren't close, and she kidnapped me, even after everything we—and, but, he doesn't care, does he! He sent me—oh God," Helen sobbed again.

"He sent you a picture, didn't he?" John felt that he understood Moriarty enough for that.

Helen cried louder. "They killed her, but she couldn't have even told anyone anything! And I can't—I don't—" she broke off, weeping louder.

John waited a moment. "Helen, please listen to me. Listen to my voice. I'm here and Abby is here and we're not letting anyone shoot you, okay?"

The crying slowed down a little. "I know you don't know anything. It doesn't matter. Stop thinking about it," John soothed. "Just put that thought out of your mind. It wasn't your mother's fault and it's not your fault. He's a madman, and we will stop him."

He heard a few stray sniffles, but Helen seemed to calm down. John let out a slow breath in relief and lowered himself to the floor. He leaned back against the door and stretched out his legs. Abby immediately laid her head on his knees, looking dejected. He continued to stroke her head absent-mindedly. "I know it's hard to believe this, but you're not alone. Moriarty is not all-powerful."

Now if only John could believe that a bit more himself.

Helen shuffled again. "But you said you met him. You know what he's capable of!"

"Yes, I know," John said, knowing it would be foolish to hide his own fears at this point.

"I can't just wait around to be—p-picked off," Helen said, sounding agitated. "I won't put Freddy in that kind of danger. He should be with someone safe and normal," she added.

John gave a huff of a laugh. "But what if Freddy doesn't want normal?"

"B-but it would only—I'm a criminal!"

"We don't get to pick and choose who we fall in love with," John smiled wryly at his own admission. "We want what we want."

Helen considered this. "But—he, this Moriarty, he would wait, he said so! He'd wait until I was feeling complacent and happy and then one day— he'd tear it all apart," Helen cried.

"I know," John sighed. "That's exactly what he would say. And here you are, doing his job for him." John felt he was perhaps being a bit harsh, but it was true and she needed to hear it. "He's perfected the art of getting people to do what he wants without even lifting a finger. Trust me, I know."

"But wouldn't it be better if I was—out of the way, it would all be over and Freddy would be free," she reasoned, sounding hopeful. Grasping at straws. And that wasn't a good sign.

"No," he snapped loudly, startling Abby off his knees. He turned around to place his hand on the door, willing her to feel his presence there. "Don't even think that. He loves you, and Abby loves you, and if you… left, they would be devastated. Not free, Helen," he said. He remembered how afraid he'd been when he thought that guy on the boat would shoot Sherlock. How determined he'd been back at the pool with Moriarty, threatening to take them both out just to let Sherlock escape. And he felt utter conviction in his words. "Freddy loves you and that means that he'd rather be in danger than be without you," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, but slipping a little.

There was a long silence on the other side of the door. Finally, he heard the quiet voice again. "I know," she said.

John sighed. "Even if you're right," he finally said. "Even if it's all just temporary. You should take it. Don't waste any more time. You'll want to spend every minute you can with him. Move in with him, marry him, or— whatever," he floundered. "But don't leave him like that. Please," he said, feeling a heaviness tug at his heart. "You are so lucky to have this."

Helen sniffed again, but said nothing.

"And we will protect you, Helen. We will do whatever is in our power," he said, sounding sure. He knew that Mycroft must be on Moriarty's tail by now, and he had guessed that that's why Sherlock had given it a rest so far. They hadn't spoken about it, but he trusted him implicitly and that was enough.

He heard a sigh. He quickly got to his feet and Abby jumped up next to him as he heard the lock turn in the door. Helen opened, glancing warily through the gap, looking John up and down. Her blonde hair was messy and her face a mess from crying, but she still looked better than how she'd looked last night on the boat. She met John's eyes. "You know what you're talking about, don't you?" she asked, and from her shy smile John immediately understood what she was referring to. A smile quirked his lips. He felt incredibly relieved now. "That was some punch," Helen added.

"Worth it," John said, looking at the floor now.

"I know," she said, and finally opened the door properly. At once, she was covered by an armful of dog, Abby slobbering happily all over her face and wagging her tail. John gave a little laugh.

"Oh, I'm glad," he managed. "She was really getting to me."

Helen gave a little watery laugh, still sounding weak. He held out his hand. "Come on, I think the police must be here by now. We should talk this all over and we'll figure something out, yeah?"

Helen nodded, and together they went back upstairs, Abby bouncing happily around them. Helen immediately went towards the kitchen, where John could indeed hear Freddy talk to what he assumed was police. She didn't look back and John was glad; suddenly, the entire morning caught up with him and he felt himself be weighed down with everything to the point where he couldn't take another step.

He stood in the hallway and, closing his eyes, let his head hang forward a moment. He took a deep breath. Suddenly, he felt someone come closer and he recognized Sherlock's steps. He was surprised to feel arms around him, but didn't have the presence of mind to really question it at this moment. John let himself be drawn into a comforting hug. He placed his head on Sherlock's shoulder and breathed.

"Well done," rumbled Sherlock's voice against his chest. "I told you, you're good at this."

A hand was running down his back, soothing him. Sherlock was clearly getting the hang of… whatever they were doing now. John sighed heavily. "It's—it's just—" he began, but felt his heart was too full at the moment to say what he meant. "He just _does this_ to people, and—" He stopped and buried his face in Sherlock's warm body. Whatever else was going on between them, for now, Sherlock let him. John wrapped his arms around him. "Are we needed here? Can we go?"

Sherlock hummed his assent. "I've spoken to the officers. Most of them are idiots. But Lestrade is here. She will get a security detail and I've told Mycroft about her. He'll want to keep an eye on her as well, it might draw Moriarty out."

John sighed. "I don't think she was that important to him. I think he just wanted to mess with us," he said quietly, finally voicing his fears. It sounded conceited in his ears.

But Sherlock didn't contradict him. "I know. It's what he does." His hand continued its ministrations on John's back, calming him, and John felt a flicker of hope, despite his better judgement. He shouldn't _assume_ , he thought, but then Sherlock's hand wandered upwards and he threaded his fingers into John's hair. "But you were here, and somehow you talked her out of it," he commented, sounding pleased. "Jim Moriarty continues to underestimate John Watson." Sherlock sounded incredibly proud at that, as if John was something he had that Moriarty didn't. And John supposed, well, that was kind of the truth. He felt a pleasant flush creep into his cheeks at the praise, bringing him back to his senses a little.

He shifted in Sherlock's arms and leaned back to look at him. He gave Sherlock a small smile and Sherlock returned it. "Let's go home then."


	16. Necessary

**~~ One Breath 16: Necessary ~~**

If John had thought that everything would just magically dissolve into perfection, he'd have been wrong. As it were, he didn't think that at all. The cab ride home was quiet, except for a calm discussion of the case and where they stood with Moriaty still on the loose. Sherlock, who had done nothing but surprise John in the last forty-eight hours, surprised him once more.

Silence had stretched for a while, the details of the cases all laid out and dissected, and nothing new had been learned. Finally, Sherlock spoke. "I won't go after him, John."

John's head snapped around from where he'd been looking out of the window. "Why not?" He swallowed heavily, frowning. It was not what he'd expected to hear at all.

Sherlock glanced at him with something indescribable crossing his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before settling his face once again into a calm mask. "Because it's not worth risking it again." He paused and finally managed, in a quieter voice, "risking you again."

John's eyes widened. "But if he—"

"If he shows up, if there's a case, then yes, I will solve it," Sherlock interrupted, his eyes blazing intently, the mask forgotten.

John's lips quirked upwards. "I'll help," he said. "If I can."

"I can't stop you, I suppose," Sherlock sulked.

"No. You can't." John demonstratively, if a little clumsily, grabbed Sherlock's hand and held on to it firmly. He saw a flicker of a smile on Sherlock's lips.

The hand squeezed his. "But I won't go out of my way to find him and confront him again." Sherlock was quiet for a moment again, and then something slipped, something relaxed in his shoulders, as if he was once again giving in to a quiet urge. "Last time I did that," he said, his voice less constrained. "We got blown up and you got shot, and he still escaped. Those are not acceptable odds. I don't wish to tempt him again."

John thought about this for a moment. "Yes, you do," he said. "You'd love to tempt him."

Sherlock looked at him and his lips quirked upwards, as they always did when John called him out on something. "Yes, I would," he admitted. "Before you, I'd have done it in a heartbeat. But you took a bullet at the pool that was meant for me, and…" he swallowed and his smile vanished and he looked away again. The last time he'd looked that vulnerable, John thought, was when he'd been bleeding out on his lap. "You did that for me, and that… was _good_ ," he struggled to explain himself, and John finally understood something.

"You don't owe me anything, Sherlock," he said quietly, still holding his hand.

"I know, it's much worse than that," Sherlock said, raising his other hand to his face to rub his eyes in frustration, sounding so truly mortified that John had to smile. Sherlock looked over at him again and said, "much, much worse," and John grinned, thinking that to anyone else these words would have sounded ominous, but to him it was understanding and relief and _happiness_. Sherlock let out a weak chuckle, his eyes crinkling with acceptance and quiet acquiescence and neither of them had to say anything more for the moment.

 **~~ SH ~~**

When they got home to Baker Street, things quietly progressed as normal, to the point that saw Sherlock settled in his chair, watching John hang up his jacket and take off his shoes and rub his hand down his neck awkwardly, following each movement with a hawk-like stare. It made John's skin prickle and he looked back, frozen under the predatory gaze. His thoughts roamed, of course they did, to their shower, remembering small details such as tracing the curve of Sherlock's lips under his thumb and those long, currently steepled fingers splayed out on his skin. And he was one hundred percent certain that Sherlock could read his every thought on his face. His lips curled into a smirk and John suddenly felt the need to leave the room rather quickly.

"Tea?" He could have sworn his voice was usually not that high-pitched.

"I'd love some," Sherlock rumbled, still with that same predatory, knowing glint in his eyes.

John turned tail and fled into the kitchen. He put the kettle on and busied himself with mugs and teabags for a moment, trying to regain a sense of calm. He slammed the sugar pot down on the counter with a little too much vigour and the clattering noise startled him. _Good grief, get a grip on yourself._ He knew what he wanted and he was pretty sure he knew what Sherlock wanted at this moment and that thought alone turned making tea into one of the most complex tasks he'd ever attempted. His thoughts swirled uselessly around the question of why Sherlock had been so quiet after the shower, why he'd been so affectionate the next morning, and what had changed in between.

Tea was just the thing for this situation. They could have a cuppa, settle down, and have a _proper chat_. As if anyone ever had a proper chat with Sherlock. He usually had _tedious_ _conversations_ all by himself in his brain to get them over with, predicting what you would say and informing you of the result minutes before you even opened your mouth. The kettle boiled and John took a deep breath. He turned on his heel to get to it, but instead walked straight into six solid feet of Sherlock Holmes.

John nearly jumped out of his skin. "Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

The detective was leaning against the counter, one hand on the countertop, the other on his hip. He must have literally sneaked up on John. "Unlikely," he said, a smirk curling on his lips. His voice seemed to have dropped even lower than usual. "Alright?"

John ran a hand through his hair, trying to fight another sudden onslaught of butterflies. "Yes, I'm fine, I'm okay, of course, why?" _Okay, now say that at least ten times slower and he'll believe you._

He flicked a quick glance towards Sherlock, who was hiding a smile. "You seem a little nervous," he said.

"Why would I be nervous, I'm just making tea," John replied quickly. "I, uh, the kettle did just... can I..." He looked to the counter past Sherlock, who raised his hand out of the way immediately with an innocent expression. "Oh, yes of course."

John stepped closer to get the kettle, but Sherlock clearly had absolutely no intention of moving. John sighed and leaned past him to reach the appliance and his hand brushed Sherlock's body. He could practically feel the smirk radiating off the man. He also wondered what the hell was wrong with him. They'd slept together, for crying out loud, why was this so difficult?

Strangely, the most unnerving detail of all was that John was close enough to Sherlock to smell his unique and weirdly specific scent; a mixture of freshly laundered shirts, bow rosin and chemicals. He smelled of home and safety and excitement and it was absolutely irresistible. John felt like a fly caught in a very personalised flytrap.

Finally grasping the kettle, John moved over to the cups on the table and filled them quickly. When he put down the kettle, he noticed the slightest of tremors in his hand. And so, of course, did Sherlock.

"John –"

"Look, Sherlock," he quickly interrupted him without turning around. "We should—"

Whatever it was they should do, he couldn't quite say. His words were cut off by hands being placed surprisingly gently on his shoulders. Before he could take another breath, two slender arms were delicately wrapping around him. He felt Sherlock's body close to his, a warm chest pressed against his back.

He gasped in a breath as soft curls caressed his cheek, Sherlock's head dipped down. A nose was softly placed on his clavicle in a tentative nuzzle. Another shiver went through John's body.

"What," Sherlock murmured into his neck.

John swallowed. He had to get this off his chest before Sherlock derailed him completely with his shifting attitudes. He was trying to say, _we need to talk_ , but that sounded wrong and it wasn't really what he was after. "I need you to give me some answers," he said honestly.

Sherlock stilled his movements and John thought he felt him sigh a little. He was afraid that Sherlock would draw back, but the arms remained around him and finally, Sherlock gave a rumbled "hmm" to encourage him.

"Why did you—" he tried to gather his thoughts. "You weren't sure yesterday that this was what you wanted. So why did you—" he couldn't say it, but he didn't have to. He was sure that under different circumstances, Sherlock would have mocked him for his supposed prudery; but that wasn't even it. John just didn't know exactly what to call what had happened between them – it was more than just sex, that much he knew.

Sherlock remained quiet for a moment. He raised his head and rested his chin on John's head for a moment, still hugging him, and then placed an absent-minded kiss on John's hair. The gesture was so natural and unexpected that it made John's heart swell with affection.

"I wasn't really thinking," Sherlock finally answered, and John knew that he was being as honest as he could be. "It seemed like there was nothing I could do to stop… myself, and you certainly seemed similarly inclined, so I thought that… perhaps it would be better if we just got it out of our systems."

John took a deep breath. Of course that was what he had feared. But he felt that Sherlock's current position seemed to indicate that he had changed his mind since then. "Has it occurred to you that I might not want to get you out of my system?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled into John's hair. "Oh. Oh yes," he said, sounding rather smug.

John smiled, and finally relaxed into the touch. His initial shock at Sherlock's forwardness was dissipating, leaving behind a warm anticipation and the now familiar fluttering nerves. He breathed in and tried to steady himself against the pleasant tugging in his chest; then he did the bravest thing he could. He turned around.

Sherlock's arms let go just enough to allow John to raise his head and look into his eyes. The slender hands now hung loosely around his neck, fingers absently caressing the hair at John's neck. He could feel the most pleasant shudders tingle down his spine.

John searched his eyes. "I asked you… yesterday, because I needed to know," he said, and he felt a bit dumb for having to say this. "And I really still do, Sherlock, because if you look at me like you did afterwards again I might not be able to take it," he said, his voice almost dropping to a whisper.

Sherlock frowned a little, and John could see him processing it. "You… were insecure because I didn't say anything?"

"I thought you'd changed your mind," John admitted, feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

"I—wasn't sure at the time," Sherlock admitted slowly, and John couldn't help it, his eyes widened in surprise. "This is all a bit new," he added, smiling wryly. For once, he really looked insecure. "But I thought about it some more since then."

"I can tell," John said and smiled back.

"John, this… being together, with me, it's… I'm not…" he began, searching for the right words, but John cut him off.

"Shut up, I know all that," he said, smirking. He remembered that Sherlock's first words to him when they met had been a list of things that were supposedly 'the worst' about him, things that might prevent John from wanting to live with him. He'd been so confident with his list, confusing the hell out of one very unprepared army doctor; John would have never believed then that he would be the one to unsettle that confidence one day, to make Sherlock sound as he did now, trying to explain his perceived inadequacies.

He raised his hands and held Sherlock's face. "None of that," he admonished. "But… do you want this?"

Sherlock took a breath and John could see him thinking, understanding that perhaps it was rather obvious at this point, but that lesser minds sometimes needed to be _told, out loud_ —

"More than anything," Sherlock breathed.

And John barely managed to mumble, "marvellous," before their lips finally found each other.

The arms around him tightened as their mouths pressed and clashed and small moans escaped into quick gasps of air; and Sherlock pressed him back against the table, almost pushing John to sit on it, his hips insistent and his arms leaving no room to escape. There was no holding back this time. All of John's questions had been answered and he sighed in relief and pleasure and sheer anticipation as Sherlock moved his head back for a moment and his eyes were darkened and shining and hungry and he brought out a breathless "absolutely," and continued to pull John towards his bedroom.

 **~~ SH ~~**

It was later, probably much later, but who was paying attention to such tedious things as _time_ when you had John Watson draped around you, skin pressed to skin, deliciously spent and glistening with sweat and when there was pure happiness radiating from two bodies tangled in Sherlock's sheets. Daylight was filtering through the murky curtains and created patterns on John's back, rising and falling next to him. John's eyes were closed, he was resting on his stomach, his head half hidden by a pillow, looking more relaxed than Sherlock had ever seen him.

Sherlock twisted around so that he was on his side, leaning on his elbow, one of his legs slung possessively over John's, and he began lazily tracing lines on John's arm. John hummed contentedly in his pillow.

"How come we haven't done this before," Sherlock marvelled.

"Because we're idiots," John mumbled, perfectly happy with that assessment for once.

Sherlock grinned. He loved that quiet assurance in John, that confidence that had briefly vanished after their shower together. He was glad to see it again, glad that he hadn't ruined it before it even started. He thought about how sex had seemed so _unnecessary_ before, how demeaning and distracting—whereas now, he welcomed the distraction most enthusiastically. Nothing about pleasuring John had felt demeaning, quite the contrary, in fact; and everything about him seemed entirely and utterly _necessary_.

It was also something new entirely to learn that someone could be so devoted, especially to him. Sherlock wasn't exactly the kind of person who inspired devotion in others – he knew he was bossy and inconsiderate and didn't expect anything from anyone. He'd known about John's fierce loyalty and that he cared for him, but for the sake of his own sanity he hadn't allowed himself to imagine how that might translate when having John in his bed. Suddenly, he just let himself give in to whatever their bodies demanded and it was a relief to know that he could finally, somehow, reciprocate the dedication John showed him; and from what he could tell, John was enjoying it thoroughly.

There was no more awkwardness, both of them settling into their new closeness surprisingly well, their bodies fitting together perfectly, and Sherlock was shocked to find that he felt more human and more himself than he ever had before. John managed to produce sensations and sounds and shivers in him that he wouldn't have admitted to anyone, and he really must have been blind not to have deduced John's capability to reduce him to absolute gibberish just from looking at him. It was an amazing discovery and it made him feel safe and right, and he agreed that he must have been a _colossal_ idiot to not have tried this before.

Even though Sherlock thought nothing could truly surprise him anymore, John managed to do it at every turn. Just by being _John_ , by staying when everyone else would have left, by being so unprecedented that it hurt, by being so suddenly and inexplicably indispensable, he had turned Sherlock's view of people somewhat upside down. Yes, people were still idiots, but John wasn't people, he was _John_.

 _AN: There will be a short epilogue after this ;)_


	17. Epilogue

**~~ One Breath: Epilogue ~~**

 **AN: Warning, sappiness and terrible sentiment to follow ;-) Whoops, did I say short epilogue? Ended up being twice as long as the previous chapter, hehe…**

 **~~ SH ~~**

John awoke with the soft, sweetly reminiscent pain in his limbs of another night spent with making up for all the unnecessary restraint they'd shown during the weeks before. He revelled in the smell and feel of Sherlock's bed – especially because of certain vivid memories of Sherlock in it. He felt another stab of arousal when he remembered how Sherlock had woken him ridiculously early by half kissing and half touching him everywhere, seeming mostly asleep himself. John would have never thought so, but it made sense that Sherlock pursued loving him with the same relentless energy and single-mindedness as everything else, especially at the expense of sleep. He had grumbled a little at being awoken but quickly stopped complaining and let his mind go blissfully blank as he abandoned himself to this new discovery. A sleepy, pliant Sherlock was not something he could ever refuse.

A pleasant warmth buzzed through him as he once again realised that this was _his_ now. It was admitted by both of them, he was allowed to touch Sherlock as much as he liked, and he had quickly found out that Sherlock didn't appreciate it if he noticed John was holding anything back. Yes, there may be times when things wouldn't be this easy, when they'd need boundaries and words and definitions; but for now this was exactly what he'd been missing. It had only been a week but it was already the best week of John's life, no argument about it.

He pulled on some pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt and padded sleepily into the bathroom. After a quick morning ritual he continued into the kitchen, yawning. He blinked in surprise at the two cups of tea on the kitchen table. Sherlock never made tea for him – or for anyone. At that moment, Sherlock walked in from the sitting room and his eyes met John's with a mild expression of pleasant surprise. He generally seemed completely bemused as to how much John slept, and whenever John tried to tell him that six to seven hours was not above average, all he received was an indulgent smile. It seemed that Sherlock would forever believe that John must surely be having him on, and was therefore always pleasantly surprised when John eventually _did_ get up. John found it endearing and endlessly amusing – it was these little unique things that made life at Baker Street so delightfully out of the ordinary. Sherlock's face softened in a way John had slowly come to recognize was only for him. He smiled back happily as Sherlock wordlessly handed him a cup. It was such a domestic scene, he wondered how either of them would have reacted a few months ago if anyone had told them this would happen.

"Thanks," John mumbled, stretching his tense muscles, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the tea. He was still basking in the light-headedness of the previous night and the morning, and not quite awake; otherwise he probably would have noticed Sherlock's slightly bemused grin and the slight difference in his posture. As he walked by Sherlock standing in the kitchen doorway, he leaned up and quickly brushed a kiss to his lips, and Sherlock hummed contentedly, if still with that odd smirk on his face.

John was just going to sit in his chair and drink his tea. He managed two steps into the room before he froze and realised what it was that made Sherlock look so smug. His head snapped to the sofa and its occupant, and he was instantly completely awake.

Lestrade was staring at him with a slightly slack-jawed, completely amused expression. He was half smiling half gaping, and his eyes travelled up and down John, taking in his dishevelled state, and then flickered to the kitchen doorway.

John mentally summed up how he must look: Ruffled hair, pyjama pants sitting askew on his hips and basking in an afterglow that could probably light up the whole of Baker Street. More obviously, he'd just walked in from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom and, oh, right, kissed him in the doorway. He also realized he'd probably stolen Lestrade's tea.

"Oh. Good morning," he said. He managed to sound relatively calm, John thought; which was probably due to the fact that he generally felt calmer than he he'd done in weeks. Well, the news were bound to get around eventually.

Greg began to laugh. John wanted to be at least a little bit angry for this sudden intrusion into their domestic bliss; but he couldn't help it, he was so content right now, even Mycroft barging in would not have been able to ruin it.

Sherlock chose this moment to come in and flung his arms around John's shoulders from behind, pressing a kiss into his hair. John felt a flush creeping up his cheeks. He was still completely unused to the kind of random affection he was suddenly getting, still only beginning to understand the slow transformation the cold, distant Sherlock Holmes had undergone; so a public display of their relationship was another cause for amazement.

This, however, did not bother Greg in the slightest. "Fucking finally!" He exclaimed and clapped his hands together, laughing some more. He leaned back on the couch, looking satisfied.

"Missing a comma there," Sherlock almost purred, still possessively holding on to John.

John groaned at the cheesy comment, but Greg just laughed even harder. "Thank you for that," he finally said with emphasis, wiping a tear from his eyes. "Wow. I'm sorry, I am just… actually quite relieved." John extricated himself from Sherlock and settled in his arm chair, feeling more than a little self-conscious now. Greg pointed at him. "Told you you were good together," he said, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, yes," John grumbled, avoiding Sherlock's inquisitive look. He remembered Greg's insistence at the pub and felt that he had seen this coming. No time to be prudish. "So what about that betting pool, then?"

Greg had the decency to look embarrassed at that.

"Betting pool?" Sherlock sat in his own chair, steepling his fingers. "About us?" he added after a moment, smirking.

"Oh, like you didn't know," Greg sneered with an eye-roll.

Sherlock ignored him and looked at John, his eyebrows raised.

"He told me at the pub. Said we owed him, actually," John said casually, sipping his tea.

"Do we now?" Sherlock continued, amused. Greg was looking between them with a growing worry. It seemed, for all his enthusiasm, he finally realised the drawbacks of both of them being on the same page. "Oh God, this is what it's going to be like with you from now on, isn't it? You'll just be obnoxious _together_."

John laughed. "Maybe," he conceded and glanced at Sherlock, smiling at him fondly. "But perhaps we should make it worth your while."

"What did you bet Sergeant Donovan at the docks the other day?"

Greg didn't even ask how he knew that. He looked at Sherlock and just shook his head, giving in. "Oh you're a real bastard, thank you very much. I bet her that you'd… make it _obvious_ next time we saw you at a crime scene."

"Pretty confident of you," Sherlock observed.

Greg raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. "Well, I was right though, wasn't I? Come on, gimme that much."

Sherlock smiled rather genuinely and John wondered what they'd talked about at the docks. "Yes, you were," he said and sounded, for the first time, actually grateful. Always full of surprises.

He finally looked back at John, who grinned, already knowing what he'd say. "How about it, Doctor? Shall we give Sally a run for her money?"

John could only imagine the looks of horror on the Yarders' faces. "Oh God yes," he breathed with a slow smile, looking up from under his lashes, and Sherlock's eyes widened just as his face fell a little to reveal something entirely different underneath.

It was only a matter of minutes before Sherlock had unceremoniously ushered out a laughing Lestrade and dragged John back to bed, his tea unfinished on the coffee table.

 **~~ SH ~~**

They had it all planned out. They talked about how they'd make it _obvious_ and what that entailed between laughter, imagining faces and what people would say. It was a strange mixture of apprehension and giddiness, in the middle of the night in Sherlock's bed. John was the kind of person who knew he cared a bit too much what other people thought. He knew his admission back at the pool had meant a lot to Sherlock – especially as he, by contrast, cared absolutely nothing about what people thought. John was looking forward to the effect that kissing Sherlock in public would produce.

"You realise that nobody will really be surprised. They all thought we were shagging already, remember?" Sherlock drawled, stretched out on his back, his hands behind his head, a sheet draped artfully over his hips. John leaned on his elbow next to him and, his thoughts momentarily derailed, wished he could paint.

"You know how unreal you are?" he almost whispered, and Sherlock scoffed. However, John could see the corners of his mouth twitch. He was beginning to understand that despite all his pretence, Sherlock loved his admiration, no matter if it was for his brilliant deductions or for how gorgeous he thought he was. John felt that he could live with that knowledge very well.

"All I'm saying is," Sherlock went on, his eyes closed, "we're setting ourselves up for disappointment here. People won't have nearly as interesting reactions as you're capable of imagining."

"Oh, don't say that," John grinned. "You never know with people. For all their talk, it's something else to be confronted with it."

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head at him quizzically. "You're enjoying this," he observed.

"Glad you're catching on," John smirked.

"No, I mean you're enjoying _this idea_ ," he went on undeterred by sarcasm. "I've never seen you so smug. I'd say you're…" Sherlock's eyes widened as he easily deduced it. "You want to show off!" Sherlock twisted on his side and leaned on his elbow, giving John an astonished, disbelieving look. It was quite beautiful, John thought, and he leant forward to plant a quick kiss on the irresistible cupid's bow.

"John Watson. Doctor, crack shot, war veteran… but always so modest. I never took you for a show-off!"

John laughed. It was rare to actually surprise Sherlock with something. "No, because you're usually so busy showing off yourself, you arrogant sod," he teased.

But Sherlock shook his head. "Yes but I have—" he broke off, clearly a bit confused. He'd worked out the facts but he couldn't see them for what they meant. John decided that his initial judgement that Sherlock was 'spectacularly ignorant' when it came to certain things was definitely spot-on when it came to relationships.

He finally asked the right question. "John. Why would you want to show _me_ off?"

John smiled and with a quick movement, flipped Sherlock on his back, angling himself over him. "Because, my dear Holmes, as you well know, I care what people think. And they think you're some unfeeling sociopath – as you keep reminding them." He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and gently brushed his thumb over his forehead. Sherlock was still frowning in confusion.

"I want to show off that you're different with me. I want to show them that it's not you who's wrong and weird, but _them_ , for not seeing you properly."

"But what does it matter, they're idiots," Sherlock said, an eyebrow raised, but looking amused.

"And I want them to understand that _I saw you_ and that you're _mine_ ," John finished undeterred, and began kissing Sherlock's neck.

"Okay, possessiveness, I get that," Sherlock huffed with a little laugh. Suddenly, he gripped John around the waist, deftly hooked one of his legs around him and flipped them over. John grinned, absolutely captivated by the sudden glint in Sherlock's pale eyes.

"I'll let you snog me in front of the entire Yard, if it makes you this happy," he murmured, nuzzling John's cheek and his breath tickling his ear. "But just so we're understood, dear Doctor: I'll be showing you off, too."

 **~~ SH ~~**

The 'next crime scene' wasn't even a proper crime scene. After a brief, fierce debate in the cab, however, Sherlock convinced John that it counted towards Lestrade's bet, nonetheless. John let him have it and grinned, suddenly quite convinced that Sherlock was looking forward to this as much as he was. He was a little surprised at himself, his sudden urge to show them all what tossers they were. He knew it was the typical infatuation in the beginning of a relationship that made him feel like he could conquer the world – but he didn't care. The fact alone that he was in a relationship with Sherlock now would probably take some time getting used to, and John enjoyed _not_ being used to it immensely. Mrs Hudson had called it their honeymoon period and John had cringed at the term, but she seemed so over the moon with them finally getting together that he didn't say anything.

They were headed toward New Scotland Yard for an informal press statement. Mycroft, they knew, was closing the net around Moriarty. In public, however, he released certain bits of information to distract and confuse Moriaty's sources. John felt it was all a bit over his head, this weird spy culture that Mycroft worked in, but he and Sherlock seemed to agree on something for once in their lives, so he just let them worry about it. They got to NSY, where several choice members of the press were assembled around the stairs of the entrance. DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, along with some officers, stood in front of microphones and told the fake stories that needed to be told. John recognized Mycroft's talent behind it; indeed, Sherlock's brother had apparently been working closely with the DI on this project. The statements sounded as if Scotland Yard was tightening the noose on a significant crime network in Britain, whilst being vague enough that anyone part of said network wouldn't be truly worried. They hoped to lull Moriarty into a false sense of security, playing the bumbling, yet brave police force.

John and Sherlock waited on the side lines for the interviews to end, and then sneaked past, following the officers inside before anyone with a camera could corner them. Inside the entrance hall, Lestrade was coordinating with Sally, papers were being handed out and there was a steady coming and going of police constables and officers around them.

Lestrade gave them a friendly nod when he spotted them, and perhaps a hint of a knowing smile that nobody else would notice. John grinned. He was happy. It was a good day, they were going to – somehow – shock certain snobby members of NSY, the Moriarty case was progressing and he had Sherlock.

They stepped up to the team. "Well, I think that went well," Greg announced in greeting.

"John. Sherlock," Donovan said with a nod and turned around to follow Lestrade across the hall. John's eyebrows rose dramatically and he shared a bewildered look with Sherlock, who looked equally amused.

They made their way across the foyer when someone brought over another case file for Lestrade, and he briefly motioned Sherlock aside. "Oh, good. A word?" Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and went with him, leaving John alone with Donovan to wait for them.

John raised an eyebrow at her and enunciated his words carefully. "Since when do you call him _Sherlock_?"

Sally's eyes snapped up to meet his and she had the grace to look uncomfortable. However, she was still a proud woman and she quickly squared her shoulders and straightened up. "What does it matter? He doesn't care," she said sulkily.

John shrugged non-committedly and gave her a lop-sided smile. "I care," he said.

Sally narrowed her eyes at him. "I can see that," she said.

"Thanks," John said, quite innocently. He didn't want a fight with her, and he genuinely thought that there was something that must have changed her mind about them. Perhaps she guessed it already?

"It's just—" she began. She looked over to where Lestrade was arguing about the file with Sherlock, and caught a small glance Sherlock sent in John's direction. "I've never seen _him_ care before. About… you know. Another person," she said quietly, before she could stop herself. When John looked back at her, her face relaxed a little.

He remembered that she'd seen them together at the docks. Did she guess, already? "I know," John said, and he really wanted it to sound smug, just a little, as he'd planned; but instead he just sounded fond and ridiculously in love. He was never very good at dissimulating. He smiled, and found Sally tentatively smiling back, looking still a bit bewildered by this change of heart herself.

Out of the occasional gaggle of officers streaming past them towards the stairs or elevators, one constable came up to her and handed her a cup of coffee from one of those cardboard holders. She mumbled something about one being left for her and Sally accepted it without thinking, cradling the warm cup in her hands.

"Who would have thought," she began, and lifted the cup to her lips.

Suddenly, there was a shout from across the lobby, and John froze. His eyes darted over and he saw, almost in slow-motion, Sherlock lunging towards them, his greatcoat flaring out behind him. Before John could make a move, he had barrelled into them and shouted "don't drink that, it's poisoned!" He quickly snatched the cup from Sally's hands, splashing himself and her with coffee, and she uttered a startled cry. Sherlock pressed the hot cup into John's hands so quickly that he didn't even have time to register that it was burning his hands, and then he was off.

"Sherlock," John called after him, but he had scanned the crowd like a bird of prey and taken after his quarry before anyone could react. Lestrade came up to John, asking, "what the bloody—" and John simply pressed the soaked coffee cup into his hands, saying "get this analysed!". He took one quick look at Sally, who seemed fine, if alarmed, and ran after Sherlock. There was shouting and scuffling behind him, but he narrowed his perception to not lose sight of Sherlock and mentally prepared himself for the extended running, as he usually did when this kind of thing happened.

For all John could tell, New Scotland Yard was a maze. He cursed Sherlock's long legs as he dashed up a flight of stairs and down a corridor, barely keeping the flying coat in sight. Sherlock and his unseen prey turned corners and barrelled through fire doors, upset the calm of random offices and dashed through meetings to the cries and complaints of a multitude of Met employees.

They were still on the first floor, when their would-be poisoner seemed to run into a dead-end. Or at least, what should have been a dead-end for normal, sane people. Unfortunately, neither the woman dressed in the constable uniform nor Sherlock fell into that category. At the end of a corridor, with only a set of locked doors on one side, John finally spotted them. She gave an impatient huff and drew a gun. Sherlock stopped and raised his hands. When he spoke to her, he sounded out of breath. "Okay, that's it. Dead end. In Scotland bloody Yard. So come on. Who do you work for? Is it him?"

The woman laughed. John ran towards them, calling his name, sensing something was about to happen. The woman levelled the gun at Sherlock and moved towards the window, opening it slowly, watching her pursuers. Behind John, other officers were slowly appearing, drawn to the ruckus. He heard shouting from down the corridor. John's attention was distracted for one second, but it was enough. The fake constable lowered her gun so she could climb out of the window, and Sherlock lunged for her. She disappeared just as he reached the window, and Sherlock gave an angry yelp of "NO!"

And jumped after her.

John's heart stopped in his chest. For one moment, he was frozen in shock. Then he yelled, "Sherlock!" and dove towards the window. He looked out and the blood froze in his veins when he saw the coat-clad form on the ground, _not up, not running_. The fake policewoman was already struggling to get to her feet.

Something clicked in John's head and he quickly spun around and ran, this time without the random twists and turns, directly back to the lobby. It was no use jumping after Sherlock, he had to get to him on the ground, instead. It was only the first floor, but it was high enough that with some bad luck… no, he wouldn't think it. A sprained ankle, yes. Perhaps a broken wrist. A broken leg. John went through the possibilities in his head, diagnosing them, treating them, willing Sherlock to have just one more ounce of luck than he deserved. Panic and adrenaline coursed through him. Damn the bloody man with his suicidal risk-taking. John ran and didn't stop in the lobby by a bewildered Lestrade, whose face told him that the entire chase couldn't have taken more than a few minutes; but it felt like an hour to run back all the way, to get to the ground floor, to get to Sherlock and make sure he was safe.

John was mildly surprised that he didn't break the front doors as he ran out. A few startled officers moved as if to stop him, but Lestrade's shouts from behind made sure he could pass. He sprinted around the right side of the building, turned the corner and connected sharply with the fake constable. She looked a bit roughed up, her hat was missing and she had a few scrapes. Without thinking, John simply decked her in the face. She had seemed to know what she was doing earlier, but she had certainly not seen this coming. John realised that if he had delayed by mere seconds, the woman would have blended into the crowd again and easily disappeared. She was dazed, but still tried to run. John mercilessly struck out his legs at just the right moment and grabbed her arm, tripping her up, rendering her unable to reach for her gun. He heard Lestrade's shouts then, and a group of Met officers including him and Sally came running around the corner. John swirled around and he unceremoniously shoved the woman in their general direction. She protested, claimed it was all a mistake, but John wasn't listening any more, his attention riveted on the figure ahead.

Sherlock was lying on the ground some fifty feet away, pushing himself up on his arms. John instantly felt relief wash over him as he ran forward: Sherlock wasn't unconscious and he couldn't see any blood. "Sherlock, bloody hell, are you all right?" He quickly kneeled by him, checking him for injuries.

Sherlock looked amused. "Nice right hook," he said and grinned at John.

"Christ, you—oh my God, I can't believe you did that!" He was shouting now. Sherlock gingerly pushed himself up, and slowly managed to stand by putting his weight on John's arm.

"Ooh," he winced. "I've got to work on my superhero landing. I think I sprained my wrist there."

"You SPRAINED your WRIST? Sherlock, you complete cock! You could have broken your NECK!" John was absolutely certain he'd kill Sherlock once they got home. Scratch that, he'd kill him right now, for making him think—

Sherlock, however, looked completely unperturbed by John's outburst; he merely stood close to him, cradling his wrist with his hand, smiling sheepishly. John realised his own hands were tightly fisted into Sherlock's arms, as if he could take off again any minute to get another body part sprained or broken. He felt as if he couldn't draw a breath, he was so exasperated at how much he loved this insane, irresponsible man.

"You bastard! How many times, Sherlock? You can't do something like that to people who love you, I swear you're going to be the death of me one day—" He broke off, staring into the pale eyes that narrowed with amusement.

"People who love me?" Sherlock asked with a gentle smirk.

John let go of him then and threw up his arms. "Oh shut up, genius, you deduced that last week when you overheard me talking to Helen!"

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up. "You knew?"

John's voice softened a bit, finally. Sherlock stepped a bit closer to him again, still cradling his hand, but his eyes riveted on John. "Of course I knew, you idiot," John said, and couldn't help a fond smile creeping onto his face. It was really bloody difficult to stay mad at the man when looked at him like this. And it became completely impossible with his next words.

"I love you," Sherlock said, looking impressed and amazed all at once. Whether he was amazed at John or his own admission, John had no intention of pondering at this time.

His mind in a pleasant spin, his cheeks heating up at the honest, deep tone of Sherlock's voice, John closed the distance between them and grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat. "Obviously," he grinned, drew him closer and kissed him.

If there was suddenly some noise behind them of people whooping and whistling and laughing, neither of them really noticed nor cared.

 **~~ The End ~~**

 _ **AN: Thank you all so much for reading! As this was my first Johnlock story, I would love to hear what you think, so please let me know. I had a blast writing it and never thought it would get so long! Thanks for sticking with this one, my dears xxx**_


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